The Ghat of the Only World
by Biyo94
Summary: Follows 'Hannibal' (novel) canon till chapter 77. Starling witnesses the kidnapping of Dr. Lecter in the grocery store parking lot. Later she comes to know that he is being taken to India. With no doubt in her mind about Mason's intentions, she follows Dr. Lecter to the other side of the world, thus embarking on a journey that would change her life, forever. Jungle fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are the creation of the brilliant mind of Mr. Thomas Harris. Others belong to me.** **The title is taken from the biographical account of Agha Shahid Ali, written by Mr. Amitav Ghosh. It seemed apt, both literally and metaphorically. You'll see why.**

* * *

Starling, trundling her second grocery cart of the day across the lot, heard the slap of the air rifle and recognized it instantly as a muzzle signature. She ducked by reflex as the people around her shuffled along, oblivious. Hard to tell where it came from. She looked in the direction of her car, saw a man's legs disappearing into a van and thought it was a mugging.

She slapped her side where the gun no longer lived and began to run, dodging through the cars toward the van.

"Hold it! Stop! FBI! Stop or I'll shoot!"

The adrenaline coursing through his veins in addition to Starling's frantic screams caused Piero to drop the harpy beside the Mustang, forgetting the secondary reason why he had seized it- to cut the valve stem off the car's front tire. The flight reflex took over and he ran toward the van, diving in just in time as Mogli thrust his foot down on the accelerator, driving away from the grocery store.

Starling bent down to pick up the harpy, and saw the package under her car, near the front left tire.

A three hundred and twenty five dollar bottle of Cháteau d'Yquem, and the note, written in that familiar hand: _Happy Birthday, Clarice._

The human body and mind are for the most part synchronized, the former being the servant of the latter. However baser instincts take over when the mind is unable to provide instructions, drawing inspiration from the activities performed a thousand times over in the past- monotony; diversity isn't feasible at these times. Starling fastened her seat-belt and keyed the engine into ignition by rote- providing much needed time for her brain to process the newly acquired information. A conclusion was drawn in about ten seconds: _Dr. Lecter is here and has been kidnapped…_ She reversed her car and drove after the van full throttle as her brain completed … _by Verger._

Carlo pulled the dart from Dr. Lecter's neck, relieved when the hole didn't spurt. The relief was short-lived as Mogli saw a Mustang two cars behind in the rear view mirror and informed him. Carlo turned to Piero and slapped him hard on the cheek, making his ear ring. "One small job and you couldn't do it," he yelled in Italian. He moved to the back window to keep an eye on the car and shouted, "Fast! Go fast. Take the other route, the desolated one.''

Amidst ear-shattering honking and curses from other drivers, the van took a sharp right turn. Carlo smiled a gnomish smile as Starling followed. "Bad move," he mouthed as he pulled out a pistol from the waistband of his trousers and waited.

Seeing no other cars in the vicinity, Starling sped up so that she was now driving side-by-side with the van. She lowered the window glass and screamed at the driver, "FBI! Pull over to the side right now!" Mogli ignored her and increased the speed. Starling pursed her lips and swiftly steered left, ramming the Mustang into the van causing Carlo and Piero to fall in the back beside their captive. Carlo quickly shuffled to his feet, lowered the side window glass and pointed his gun at the Mustang. Ignorant of the danger, Starling tried to repeat her move but before the impact could be made, a bullet from the pistol pierced her rear tire causing it to burst and the car to swirl. The tires screeched hysterically, sparks flying tangentially across the burst one as the Mustang turned a quarter circle. Starling deftly rotated the steering wheel with one hand to counter the precession couple and with the other pulled up the handbrake causing the car to halt instantly. The muscle car would have toppled if not for its lower than usual center of gravity and bulkiness. She jumped out and caught a glimpse of the van as it disappeared through an appreciable curve behind the rows of trees.

She didn't have a cell phone with her and the road was deserted. She couldn't contact anyone, leaving her with the only option to replace the tire. The fact that she knew where the van was headed was the only consolation for her efforts.

* * *

"One simple task and you couldn't do it properly! I knew I shouldn't have hired you fools!" Mason ranted in his lip-less voice.

"So what if Starling knows about the kidnapping? She's been suspended. There aren't any resources at her disposal. Plus half the authorities are in your pocket. I really don't see what the big deal is,'' Margot, who was standing in one corner of the dimly lit room, uttered.

"You don't see because you're fucking blind! Starling has worked in the FBI for seven years. She must have contacts she can pull. And what if she approaches the media? Lecter means TRP. The authorities may turn a blind eye initially but as the public pressure builds up, they'll be forced to act. I won't have enough time with this son of a bitch!" He pointed toward Dr. Lecter, who was still unconscious and sitting on a steel chair restrained by thick nylon ropes, with his eye.

Hesitantly, Mogli asked, "So what do we do now?"

Mason had already planned for this eventuality. Physical handicap and a restless mind did have certain advantages- a plethora of idle time for plotting, for instance. "Cordell, call Krendler. Tell him to get his ass here quickly. Ask him to bring Pearsall as well. Starling won't defy her boss. Also, instruct the staff on the airport to ready my private jet immediately. Ask the security to be discrete with the goods I'll be bringing. No issues with money, get it? I don't want any hurdles or surprises. Mogli, load Lecter into the van. We are going to India."

With a terse nod, Mogli left and Mason continued, "I won't budge an inch on the method of torture. I've waited far too long for it. Carlo, you have the responsibility of the pigs. I'll arrange a cargo jet for their transportation. You'll follow us in it, okay? Don't worry, I'll make sure enough hands are greased so that no questions are asked once you land in India."

As Carlo nodded, Mason simply added, "Take Tommaso with you."

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Starling arrived just in time to watch the huge iron gate turn on its hinges and a black Mercedes move out of the entrance of the Verger estate, followed by the same van she'd been chasing from the grocery store. She maneuvered her car and parked it broadside, a few metres from the convoy, effectively blocking the road. A blue-beaconed SUV was howling toward the scene of confrontation. Starling sighed in relief.

When the SUV stopped, she got out, forgetting to pull out the keys in her hurry. She marched straight up to Pearsall. No greetings were exchanged. Words were pouring out of her mouth before her legs had ceased activity. "Sir, Verger has Lecter. I saw his men kidnap him in a grocery store parking lot earlier. I tried to..."

"And you didn't inform the authorities?" Krendler interrupted.

She ignored him and continued, "...stop them but couldn't."

Cordell joined the trio and said in a trained, sophisticated voice, "Ms. Starling, you shouldn't be here. You're legally deterred from coming anywhere near Mr. Verger. Here's the restraining order." He handed the paper to Krendler when Starling refused to accept it.

"Looks authentic. It says you harassed Mason Verger, Starling," Krendler announced after a quick glance at the paper. He had helped Mason acquire it from the local court.

Starling addressed Pearsall with all the seriousness she could muster, "Sir, it's a ploy to divert attention from the real situation. Dr. Lecter and the goons who kidnapped him are in that van, I'm sure. I urge you to search-"

"Without a warrant?" Krendler interjected once again, feigning shock. "That's illegal."

Before Starling could retort, Cordell said, "Mr. Krendler is right. If you do what Ms. Starling is asking you to, Mr. Verger will be left with no choice but to sue you and the organization you represent, Mr. Pearsall."

Pearsall frowned at the threat directed at him but he knew he couldn't do anything. His office was already dealing with the embarrassment caused by the 'Evelda Drumgo' fiasco and another lawsuit would surely mean his disgraceful departure from the FBI. The lack of a reply confirmed his helplessness and sealed the deal. "Now please ask Ms. Starling to clear the road. Mr. Verger has a plane to catch to India."

Pearsall sighed. "My hands are tied Starling. Move your car."

Starling crossed her arms against her chest. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said 'No.'"

Pearsall couldn't believe his ears. "Are you refusing to obey a direct order from your boss, Starling?" Krendler asked, adding fuel to the fire.

Outraged by her defiance, Pearsall warned, "Starling, move your car or I swear to god I'll grill you under the most serious disciplinary codes for your behavior. Heed the order or I'll make sure you never see the insides of the Hoover building ever again."

Unfazed by the threat, Starling continued shooting daggers at him. Though a picture of moral obstinacy outside, she inwardly acknowledged that her career as a public servant was practically over.

No one noticed Krendler leave Pearsall's side and head toward the Mustang. The logjam ended when he reversed the car, thus making way for Verger's convoy to leave.

"Motherfucker!" Starling hissed under her breath, eyeing Krendler who was now leaning against her car with a smug smile on his face.

With no worry of her career now occupying her mind and his 'cornpone country pussy' remark flashing before her mind's eye, Starling marched toward her arch nemesis. Recalling every leery look he ever gave her, every lewd comment and innuendo, every move he ever made to get into her pants, she kneed him in his groin with strength that surprised even her. She got into her Mustang and drove away, disappointed that she couldn't spare a few more seconds to enjoy the agonizing screams of her foe. She had to content herself with watching him writhe in pain in the rear view mirror.

Time was of the essence...Dr. Lecter's life was on the line.

* * *

 **To those of you following LvL, I haven't abandoned the story. I have several diverging plot routes in my mind and I need to decide which one to take. I'll update it soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

In the quiet of her car, thoughts flowed smoothly.

True, Dr. Lecter had committed deplorable crimes but that didn't give Mason the right to take the law in his own hands. He wanted to torture him using the most barbaric techniques imaginable and subsequently kill him. The thought made her gooseflesh rise, and she pushed her foot down hard on the accelerator, hoping the speed would help her calm down. The duplex she shared with Ardelia was her destination- she needed a familiar turf to think and decide about her future course of action.

An hour later, Starling found herself sitting in the absolute order of Mapp's side of the duplex, analyzing each strand of the situation minutely.

 _What do we know? First, facts. Dr. Lecter was kidnapped by Mason's goons who took him to the Verger estate. Mason plans to torture and kill him to extract revenge for his ordeal._

 _And now he's headed to...India? Strange. Did Cordell mean to disclose that info to me or was it unintentional? Why go to India? He can fulfill his fantasies here._

A beat.

 _No, he cannot! Son of a bitch knows I'll do anything to stop him. Okay, so he couldn't stay here and had to leave._

Mason's intent deciphered with reason, it was time to focus on his actions.

Starling fired up her laptop and typed: _Verger estates and properties_ in the search engine. She clicked on the topmost result which showed a world map with several red dots in the US, Canada, Europe, Japan, Australia and India. When the cursor hovered over India, a white box appeared: _Largest pig and cattle rearing farm in the world, constituting 35% of the world's beef and pork trade; most of the exports to the US; owned and maintained by Verger Industries._

 _Okay Starling, the question is this: Why go all the way to India when Canada, Europe and Japan are much closer?_

 _Why India? Why India? What's the catch here?_

She plugged her index fingers into her ear-holes, the static thus generated lubricating the cogwheels of her mind. It was a trick she'd learned when she was a child.

Finally it hit her!

All the other countries had extradition treaties with the US but not India. She recalled an incident that happened about three years ago, involving a cocaine kingpin who had fled to India and later to Myanmar to escape the FBI.

 _Mason's playing safe. If anything goes wrong, he can live the rest of his days in comfort without worrying about being handed over to the US authorities. It all fits!_

Next she searched about the Verger estate in India to get all the intricate details of the property.

He had a farm there and it was huge- spread over a total area of 25 hectares excluding cold storage facilities, in the coastal plains of the south-western province of Karnataka, with the Arabian Sea to the west and the jungles of the Western Ghats to the north, east and south.

Western Ghats are one of the globally recognized biodiversity hotspots and UNESCO World Heritage Site, inhabiting thousands of rare species of flora and fauna, covering the coastal boundaries of India.

Surrounded by jungles and ocean, rail and road connectivity was predictably absent. Aerial route was the only option to reach the farm. It seemed perfect for Mason's wicked plans- desolated and wild.

Ardelia Mapp entered through the front door and for a moment was taken aback as she witnessed Starling sitting on the floor, one hand on the laptop's track pad and the other maniacally wandering through the piles of printouts around her. Mapp reached out and grabbed a handful of pages. She briefly cast an eye at them and asked, "What's with the India obsession, Starling? You planning to go see the Taj Mahal?"

When Starling's movements didn't cease, Mapp realized something was wrong. She bent down and caught Starling's hand, forcing her to look at her.

"What's wrong?"

The dilemma to reveal or not to reveal was short-lived as the mere touch of her friend diffused some of the tension in her body.

Quickly, Starling gave a gist of the entire situation before getting busy with her laptop.

"Let me make sure I heard you correctly, Starling. First you witnessed the kidnapping of Lecter. Then instead of calling 911, you decided to chase the kidnappers yourself, completely aware that you didn't have a weapon. You defied your boss, kneed Deputy Assistant Inspector General Paul Krendler in the balls and now you plan to go all the way to India to rescue a convicted cannibalistic serial murderer. Is that it?"

A nod.

"Are you insane, girl? Don't you see how ridiculous that sounds?"

In the silence that followed, the rhythmic ticking of the second hand of the wall clock could be distinctly heard along with Mapp's quick, shallow exhalations.

If there was one thing that Ardelia Mapp didn't take well, it was being ignored. When she spoke she made sure her tone possessed the sting she was feeling. "Whenever Lecter comes into the picture, your mind shuts down! You discard every iota of rationality. First in Memphis and now again. What is it with you and him?"

Starling's breath hitched. She'd been questioned on the same lines before by her colleagues and reporters, and it had never bothered her. Hearing it from the person she considered her closest ally made the skin of her belly quiver.

She turned her head toward Mapp and said, "I've never judged you, Ardelia and expect the same from you."

"See things from my perspective, Starling. It's hard not to judge. You're planning a suicide mission to save a serial killer. Is his life worth yours? So what if Mason kills him. Isn't the world better off without him? It is-"

Starling cut her speech midway as she whispered, "His death will be on me, Ardelia. If I let him die, the lambs will never stop screaming."

Mapp was dumbfounded. Though she didn't have a base in psychology as Starling did, her minimal knowledge was better than most.

 _'If I let him die...' Not 'If he dies...' She's already established herself as his savior in her mind._

Mapp knew about the lambs from the transcripts of Starling's conversations with Dr. Lecter. Ever since the Jame Gumb case, she'd tried to get Starling to see a psychiatrist for her issues but to no avail.

She concluded that Starling's decision to save a fiend was a result of her deep rooted issues. A small voice telling her there was more to it niggled at the back of her head. She didn't consider it.

She couldn't afford to consider it. Because delving on it meant she was doubting her best friend. Though it was true that Starling had always seemed mysterious whenever anything connected to Dr. Lecter was brought up for conversation, she didn't know anything for sure. That gave her the excuse to look the other way. Deniability.

Looking into Starling's face, Mapp accepted that the battle was lost. So she decided to change the argument. "Okay. But if you're going, I'm coming with you."

Starling resolutely shook her head once. "I won't allow you to be spiraled into this mess, Ardelia. No way."

A staring contest ensued which ended when Mapp yielded. "Fine. But I want to help. Tell me what you need."

"Someone's life is on the line, Ardelia. Every second matters. While I gather information about the farm, could you look into the travel arrangements to get me there ASAP?"

"Sure, girl. Give me half an hour."

Exactly half an hour later, the duo sat on the couch, facing each other. Their postures were identical- one foot trapped underneath the other limb and hands folded on the lap. The laptop was kept handy on the coffee table.

"Go," Starling commanded.

"Considering time as the prime factor, I've decided upon two routes. One is conventional, the other...err...not-so-conventional." Shifting her eyes to the notes she had written on the notepad now propped on her thigh, she continued, "Okay, the conventional one first. IAD to CS Airport in Mumbai with one stop in Dubai. Visa on arrival. From there on you can hire a private helicopter to drop you off to the farm. Total journey time- about 30 hours. Mason is on a private plane and going by the most conservative estimates, he'll reach the farm in 23 hours, at the most. When we add the headstart he already has on you and other probable delays, you'll be twelve hours behind him. Give or take."

Their eyes met and Starling nodded her understanding. "Let's hear the other one."

"IAD to Muscat International Airport, Oman in 18 hours, including waiting time. From there on, it gets unconventional. The US, Indian and Japanese navies are conducting their annual naval exercises dubbed 'Malabar' in the Indian Ocean this week. A US aircraft carrier is docked in the naval base at Muscat right now. Call it kismet or whatever, by the time you reach there, it will head off to the Arabian Sea (points to the sea on the map of the subcontinent opened on the laptop's screen) to take part in the exercises. Its hangar has two private helicopters, hired to carry waste and perishables from and to the carrier. Four hours into the voyage, one of them will head to mainland India, flying directly overhead a beach about 5 km from the farm at one point. A generous payment and you can be on that copter. Total time of the journey- about 26 hours. All variables taken into view, Mason will have four hours on you, five max."

"You can get me on an aircraft carrier?!"

Starling didn't know how but she knew Mapp could. She wouldn't have concocted such a detailed plan otherwise.

A smile was her only reply.

"How did you come up with such an elaborate plan in such a short time?"

Ardelia tapped her temples with her index finger. "My brain works faster than most. But you already knew that." A pause. "So which one is it then? The first one or the second one?"

"Five beats twelve. Tell me how will you get me on a friggin' aircraft carrier?"

"I have my ways. You remember my boyfriend, Ned? He's a bigwig in DoD now. We parted on good terms. I'm sure I can pull in a favor for you."

Starling pulled her friend into a tight hug. "Thank you, Ardelia. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You better get ready girl. Your flight leaves in an hour and a half."

Starling knew better than to ask how she managed to book her a seat in an international flight in such a short time. Probably, a favor done by another former boyfriend.

Curious, she did ask another question.

"How did you know which route I was gonna choose?"

Cocking an eyebrow, Ardelia said, "I know you better than you do yourself. Now haul ass, girlfriend!"


	3. Chapter 3

The mild hum of the rotor was the first thing Dr. Lecter's ears picked up when he came to. He shifted a little, making the nylon ropes to dig further into his skin. His nose caught a whiff of mud, straw and gunpowder... _the kidnappers,_ along with a note of garlic pungency associated with stagnant, immobile muscles... _Mason._

He followed the odor and turned his head before opening his eyes slowly

"Greetings, Dr. Lecter," Mason said, veiled behind Dr. Lecter's infamous hockey mask. He was spread over a travelling gurney like a corpse, tubes emanating from his body toward medical equipment. A portable respirator was beeping in the background. "I would have stood if I could. Sorry for the discourtesy."

Dr. Lecter's eyes crackled, his lips curved upward as he took in Mason's appearance.

His enemy's plight did not excite him as some of the so-called experts of psychology might have conjectured if they observed the scene; it simply amused him.

"It's perfectly alright, Mason." He gave a slight nod toward Margot, who was standing behind the gurney, to acknowledge her presence. Piero and Mogli were looking at the scene from one corner. Dr. Lecter didn't look at them.

"May I ask where we are headed, Margot?" His deep baritone voice didn't have any element of shock or confusion. It would have been difficult to prove that he was unconscious a minute ago.

Before Margot could reply, Mason answered excitedly, "To India. I've got a little something planned for you there. Tell me Doctor, did you ever think India would be your final resting place? I'm sure you'd have preferred Europe, Italy in particular. But we can't have everything we wish for, now can we Doctor?" A beat. "Now that I think about it, we can always transport the hogs back to Italy. That way your remains will be mixed with the soil of your beloved Italy when they shit."

Mason peered closely, trying to catch any change in Dr. Lecter's rigid features…twitch of an eye…crease on the forehead, any sign that would give away his trepidation. Nothing. His refined features remained as passive as ever.

"You know what your problem is, Mason? You try too hard. Your penchant for drama is your worst enemy. You could have straight away told me your plans involving the hogs and I. But no. You twisted it to evoke...what? Did you expect my eyes to bulge in shock? Did you hope I'd gasp? Tell me Mason, do you by any chance remember my expression or better yet yours when you peeled off your face that faithful evening? Make a little effort and you might recall the smile on your lips as you swallowed your nose. You said it tasted like chicken."

Silence. No one dared to move or say anything.

A few minutes passed before Mason said, "I don't know about that time, Doctor but I'll definitely remember my smile as the hogs feast on your face. Piero! No water for him till we reach the farm, understood?"

Mason was wheeled away to his cabin in the front section of the airplane. The goons waited for their captive to wriggle in his seat, show any hint of discomfort. They were disappointed when Dr. Lecter simply turned his head. His face was devoid of emotion as he gazed out the window. He analyzed what had transpired at the grocery store parking lot while simultaneously processing the new piece of information regarding the pigs and India. He paused as a stray piece came loose, adamant and interfering, and felt a pang of...regret?

 _Interesting._

Unbridled, images he had captured in the past filled his mind...Clarice getting out of her car…Mischa getting out of her copper bathtub, dripping wet…Clarice's wet eyes when he extracted the information about the screaming lambs from her…tears streaking down Mischa's face as she told him how she fell down near the pond.

He would have liked to see Clarice's reaction to his gift. He would have liked to see her reaction to her father's bones. He would have liked to witness her transformation.

Regret, indeed.

Dwelling on the matter was of no use, so he deftly set it aside as a new subject emerged. He wondered whether the Lagrangian approach was good enough to determine the external flow characteristics of the jet. Or should he take into account Euler's theory of fluid mechanics?

Aria on the harp flowed easily in his mind as he tried to ascertain the velocity of flue gases leaving through the nozzle of the jet. Dr. Lecter hummed along to the music.


	4. Chapter 4

USS John C. Stennis is a marvelous structure of steel.

1092 feet long, 250 feet broad and at the moment residence of some 6500-odd people, it was huge. Really huge. Starling was standing near the safety handrail at the rear end of the carrier, staring mesmerizingly over the hangar at the flight deck beyond. The hint of green in her eyes twinkled with amazement as she recalled the time when she had first seen the Ferris wheel at the carnival with her father. The memory made her smile. The moment was short-lived as an image of her father lying in the coffin flashed before her mind's eye.

Starling turned around and walked the short distance to the safety handrail. She had never understood people's fascination with beaches. According to her, the ocean was overrated, its ability to soothe exaggerated. But in this moment, standing on an aircraft carrier with nothing but the ocean all around her, she couldn't deny the unmistakable humility its vastness evoked.

She wondered if the carrier was huge, what adjective ought to be used to describe the ocean.

 _The carrier is huge relative to me. It is nothing but a pinpoint relative to the ocean._

 _Relative._

And just like that, Clarice Starling, who had always believed in the absoluteness of the law, had an epiphany.

 _Everything is relative. Nothing is absolute._

Posing as a kitchen staff and dubiously gaining entry into a US Navy vessel was a crime with respect to the law, a very serious crime. But could it be labelled a crime when her circumstances were taken into consideration? No, her moral-self answered without hesitation.

In that moment, Starling realized the inherent flaw in the order she had taken oath to impose, seven years ago. Law was rigid and thereby exclusive. It depended on the person on whom it was applied.

The Paul Krendlers and Mason Vergers of the world could twist it to get their ways, and people like her were whipped with the same law till they fell in line and accepted their roles of silent spectators. The system churned out blind robots who accepted things as they were and defective ones- the rebels were bulldozed. How many John Brighams had been sacrificed to quench the egos of those at the top?

A violent wind tried to blow away the laminated ID hanging around her neck but her hand intervened in time. Bringing it to eye level, she read the words aloud: _Miranda Dean...Kitchen helper._

A chortle.

The real Miranda Dean had taken ill, presenting a perfect opportunity for Ardelia's 'DoD bigwig' to pounce on. He'd done his job perfectly. She made a note in her mind to thank him personally when she returned...if she returned.

Her eyelids were getting heavy and her limbs lazy. The soft pitching of the carrier and the blue of the ocean were lulling her into a sense of calm but she knew she couldn't relax till her purpose was fulfilled.

The situation had an eerie resemblance to her first meeting with Dr. Lecter down in the dungeons.

Treading that dimly lit corridor, Jack Crawford's words had reverberated in her mind like a mantra: _Never forget what he is._ She had hoped it would act as a shield against whatever Dr. Lecter had in store for her. To this day, she couldn't quite place what she had felt when he looked up from the loose pages of the Italian Vogue, at her. In those initial seconds when he had walked up to the safety net, his pale, symmetric face and those intense maroon eyes had lulled her into the same sense of eerie calm she was feeling now, with Crawford's voice droning somewhere in the back of her head, ordering her to keep her head steady and remember her purpose.

She had been unnerved in his presence more than once. She had expected to encounter a madman staring at her with maliciousness. Instead what she'd seen in his eyes was curiosity.

She had conveyed her deepest secrets to him, things she always thought would go with her to her grave. And it wasn't like Dr. Lecter hadn't responded. Starling would never forget the empathy evident on his face when he thanked her for telling him about the lambs. She had never believed in the hypothesis of the psychologists about him and that one moment had confirmed her beliefs.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" A voice came from behind her.

Starling, lost in her thoughts, didn't seem to notice.

Seconds later, a man dressed in plain navy blues appeared beside her and said again, "The view is beautiful, isn't it, Miss...?"

Her relaxed shoulders tensed once again as her reverie broke. She couldn't ignore him without coming on as rude, and that would attract unnecessary attention. "Yes it is. And it's Dean. Miranda Dean." The lie flowed easily on her tongue.

"A beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

 _Congratulations, Starling. You're being hit on in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Fucking brilliant. A new milestone. Way to go!_

Her wicked sense of humor diluted some of the irritation she was feeling. The gears of her mind began to rotate, presenting her with an idea to play the situation to her advantage.

She flashed a sweet smile at the man. "Thank you. You yourself aren't that bad to look at either." Her tone was a bit flat for a flirtatious line like that but the red hue on the man's cheeks revealed that it had worked.

A few seconds later, she plunged, "May I ask you something?"

"Please do."

"Do you know where I can find the operator of that helicopter?" She pointed to one of the private helicopters in the hangar.

The man was puzzled. "Um...yes, I do. You see that man over there wearing turban? (He pointed in the direction of a small lounge at the far end of the hangar). He's your man."

"Thank you. Now please excuse me."

The man hastily asked, "Would you like to accompany me to dinner-"

"Sorry but no," she cut him mid-sentence and was gone before he could respond.

The lounge was situated on the periphery of the hangar, near the flight deck. Starling walked across the hangar, one by one passing the US Navy's F16s to her left and Indian Sukhois to her right.

She observed the man sitting alone on one of the benches in the lounge, reading a newspaper. He was a large man- Sikh, going by the bright red turban covering his head and the flowing beard. His mustache was thick but kempt. He was wearing a saffron-colored kurta, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and loose trousers.

For one fleeting moment, she felt pity for his poor choice of clothing. The very next moment, she felt envious of his comfortable attire.

She walked up to the bench and sat down next to him. When he turned his head toward her, she noticed the wrinkles under his big, sunken eyes. It spoke of his years of experience.

"Namaste," she greeted, joining her hands.

For some reason, her action amused him as a small smile covered his lips. "Namaste ji Namaste," his heavy voice boomed.

Starling didn't know how to proceed. Sensing her discomfort, the large man said, "I understand English, if that's what you're wondering."

"Oh good. My name is Cl—um—Miranda Dean and I need your help, Sir..."

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By the time she departed, her pocket was a few thousand dollars light. It was the first time she had ever asked for a favor. She wondered whether it would be categorized as a favor, given that she had offered a handsome payment in return.

No. It was a simple quid pro quo.

Technicalities aside, she acknowledged that the exchange was something her moral-self would have construed as a taboo even six months ago.

Six months ago.

She waited for a storm of guilt to wreck her emotional core. It never came. Starling was glad.

A lot had passed in the last few months.

Shade engulfed her as clouds covered the sun. She looked up at the serene white blobs in the blue background and saw Dr. Lecter's face. It was his old face, of course.


	5. Chapter 5

Seven hours after he gained consciousness, Dr. Lecter found himself bound to a tapered mast a few meters from one of the walls of the barn. Orange light sprinkling from cracks and crevices no longer proved ample and large floodlights fitted above were turned on as the sun set. The air was sticky and dense. The ocean was near, he could tell.

Mogli and Piero were working hard to improve the condition of the square enclosure located opposite the entrance. Preparations were in full swing to make it sturdy for holding the wild hogs. Fresh wooden pieces were being nailed over the unsteady ends, and the hinges of the dutch gate were being oiled.

Amidst hammering and creaking, heavy footfalls behind him revealed his caller's identity.

"Good evening, Margot," Dr. Lecter greeted before she was even visible to him. His tone was courteous.

Margot came around and stood at an arm's distance from him. "Hello, Dr. Lecter."

Dr. Lecter inhaled deeply. "You still have that lemony scent about you. Just like the time when you first came to me. Minus the odor of blood, of course. Do you remember?"

Her eyes roamed over the web of nylon ropes covering his torso and legs. The bonds were so tight, her throat felt constricted. She wondered how he was able to breathe. For a few seconds, she deliberated over loosening his bonds a little. When she looked into his face and saw no hint of discomfort, she chided herself for forgetting who he was.

A deep breath. "Yes. I had stitches. I was dreading having to sit down. But you never asked me to. We walked in the garden. You told me that I was no more at fault for what happened than if I had been bitten on the behind by a mad dog. The visits helped me."

"I hope so. You were an intriguing case. You _are_ an intriguing case, far more complex than your brother." His tone did not change when he asked, "Tell me, how Mason made you take the chocolate after what I did to him? Did he ask his men to rape you in front of him? Did he ask you to blow them whilst he watched? Did you oblige?"

Dr. Lecter caroused the anger flaring across her face.

"I've gotten stronger since last I saw you, Doctor," she ground out.

"Oh you've gotten stronger physically. No doubt about it. Your mental strength, though, I don't know about that. It's been a while since I treated you. Plus I know Mason."

"Mason wouldn't dare try anything like that." Her eyes flickered to his left for a nanosecond, enough for Dr. Lecter to notice.

He was quick to reply. "He would and you know it. You stay awake at night wondering what he'd be up to after I'm out of the way, don't you? On whom his attentions would be concentrated after me? Tell me then, why are you helping him? What's your incentive in all this?"

To Margot, his voice sounded genuinely curious.

"I have a wife, Judy. Mason promised he'd give me his sperm to inseminate her when all this is over. We'll have a baby before Christmas next year, heir to the Verger Empire."

The laugh emanating from his mouth cut her deeply but she didn't show her hurt.

"I never took you for a delusional person." He looked into her eyes and continued, "Mason will always deny you."

"What choice do I have?" she groused.

"I'll give you a choice. Loosen my bonds a little so I can wriggle my hand out, and leave. I can take care of everything else. Go back to the States."

"No. I won't do that. I can't trust you."

Dr. Lecter knew her answer before she'd even voiced it.

"I have another proposition. You should do it. Now that I think about it, it would be more therapeutic. Foreign land, desolated scene- you know your odds can't get better than that." Something flashed in her eyes and he knew she'd already given it some thought. The next words were spoken solemnly, no hint of amusement that he was feeling inside. "Cattle prods are available at ranches like these. Margot, do you know what happens when you stimulate a man's prostate with electricity?"

One look at her face and he knew she'd do it. Whether it was before or after his demise, that was the million-dollar question. His guess was, after. Things would quiet down considerably after his death.

The main gate opened and a cargo truck backed in, driven by Carlo. Repellent snorting and ghoulish sounds were coming from inside the container mounted on its rear.

Carlo and Tommaso had followed the rest of the party in a cargo plane all the way from the US. A few million rupees and the Indian authorities had stayed clear of their business.

The truck's tires halted with a screech. Carlo jumped out and yelled something at Piero in Italian. Then for Margot's benefit, declared in English, watching Dr. Lecter from the corner of his eyes, "Hogs are here, Signora."

* * *

The chopper traversed steadily along the coastline, flying at low altitude, most probably to save fuel. There was a dense cover of clouds preventing most of the moonlight from reaching the land. Starling had absolutely no idea how Jasmit Singh was able to steer the helicopter in the pitch dark.

From the maps she had studied, she knew dense jungles of the Western Ghats spanned across miles to her right. The ocean was to her left. She trusted Jasmit to drop her off at a location close enough for her to reach the farm in the minimum time possible but far enough not to spook Mason's henchmen.

Despite its peripheral resemblance to the numerous raids and missions she had been involved in during her service, the situation couldn't be more different. She was on an alien land and there was no backup. Coupled with the fact that she had absolutely no idea about the quantity and strengths of her opponents, the chances of her succeeding were slim. Starling was pragmatic and she was aware that the odds were stacked against her.

From the beginning, she had known it was a suicide mission but the obstacles had never stopped her from doing what was right. Her character was such that she would rather die trying than living a long life with the burden of someone's death on her.

Someone's death on her. Dr. Lecter's death on her. Dr. Lecter, who himself was a killer. The irony wasn't lost on her.

How quickly she had responded to the plight of Dr. Lecter, murderer of fifteen-odd people including law enforcement personnel, the very man who had dissected her psyche with so much accuracy that it had scared her, all those years ago. She had dismissed the sane advice of her best friend. Second thoughts hadn't crossed her mind even once during her long journey to this place. That terrified her more than the thought of impending death. Her actions didn't bode well with logic and Clarice Starling had always taken pride knowing she was logical before anything else.

She could convince Ardelia of her intent using the shaky excuse of screaming lambs but she couldn't satisfy herself with half-truths. There was more to it, reasons which were hazy, things she couldn't understand at the moment, thoughts she didn't want to dwell on now. The only thing clear in her mind was that she needed to save Dr. Lecter. Or die trying.

Lost in her thoughts, Starling didn't notice the chopper decelerating or the altitude falling. It was when a heavy voice boomed in her ears that she became aware of what was happening, "I am going to drop you off now."

The chopper was hovering about twelve feet above the ground. Starling looked down and said into the microphone of her aviation headset, "The height is too much. I can't risk getting injured."

"Don't worry. The terrain is sandy down there. You'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me. The farm is three miles north of here. Jump!"

Starling removed her headphones, the roaring of the helicopter intensifying. She grabbed her bag and holding it close to her chest, jumped out of the copter onto the ground.

The operator waited for the signal and upon receiving a thumbs up, flew away, leaving Starling all alone.

Her vision was blurry because of all the sand grains propelled in the air by the vortex induced by the chopper. Her ears were ringing, aftereffect of the noise. Understandable.

What boggled her was the incessant shaking of her body. She hadn't prepared for this phase. In close proximity to her destination, Starling was nervous, the gravity of the situation finally hitting her.

 _What if I was wrong in my assessment and Dr. Lecter isn't here?_

 _What if I am too late and Dr. Lecter is already dead?_

 _He's here alright! But how am I going to save him?_

With an uncertain finger, she pressed a button on her digital watch, and the glowing numerals informed her she was four hours behind Mason.

Good.

Starling took a deep breath and tensed the muscles of her calves, belly, arms and shoulders. She held her breath and posture for a few seconds, then exhaled slowly, relaxing. She closed her eyes and for the next half minute did nothing but flush out all the thoughts, good, bad and ugly, from her brain.

When she opened her eyes, she felt revitalized, in complete control of her body and mind once again.

Knowing the weight of the bag would only slow her down, she decided to dump it on the beach, grabbing only the essentials. The map and a few bills went in one pocket of her cargo pants. A much needed sip and the Teflon water bottle went in another.

Without further delay, she dashed north, toward the farm. Starling didn't have any weapon.

Under normal circumstances, she would have been glad running three miles for a purpose. But the conditions here were really testy. The hair on her arms stood erect as she pierced the salty breeze at speed way below her optimum, to avoid cramps due to humidity. Beads of sweat formed on her temples and forehead, trickling down the curve of her nose and chin.

The terrain changed from sandy to somewhat rocky, giving her steps better grip but her pace remained constant due to the linearly increasing slope. The humming of the ocean waves was dimming as well, meaning the trajectory she was treading wasn't straight but angled toward the jungles.

Gasping for air, she reached the top just as the crescent moon peeked through the veil of clouds, reducing the intensity of the darkness a notch. A sea of gleaming solar panels was revealed in front of her. A large steel structure was visible beyond- the cold storage.

Starling was almost there.

Without wasting precious time, she maneuvered her way through the rows of panels, careful of their sharp edges.

Verger Industries was no nature lover. Power transmission from the nearest gas power plant wasn't feasible as it would have required construction work in the jungles, which would have given reason to environmentalists from all over the world to camp there with banners and posters, screaming at the top of their lungs, to respect Mother Nature. The consequent delay and negative PR would have resulted in loss of revenue, and that wasn't acceptable. Solar energy, though considerably expensive, was the only option. The quantity of solar panels deployed could be guessed from the fact that it took Starling fifteen minutes to reach the opposite end.

Lampposts lined the boundary. Light was good here. Starling didn't have to strain her eyes to see anymore.

No fencing. There was no need; the area around the farm was uninhabited.

Hours into the night, the farm was still active. To her left, near a cliff facing the ocean, thundering of bulky machines and roaring of the conveyor belt. Meat processing and packaging units.

Starling headed the other way, running, her speed bolstered by the feel of gravel loosening around her feet, three times a second.

Suddenly she stopped. Gut-wrenching shrieking and growling noises reached her ears, freezing her synapses, inducing a shudder down her spine. She felt cold and devoid.

The barn was diagonally across from her.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello, friends. Writing is a recent phenomenon for me (you can tell, I'm sure). I've been reading fics for almost three years now and I see myself as a reader first. So I know what it means to devote time to read someone's work. Know that I appreciate each and every one of you. Lots of love :) :)**

 **Friends, I have two questions. First, in chapter 39 of the novel,** _ **Hannibal,**_ **Mr. Harris writes, "** **After she hung up the phone, she lay still for many minutes in the dark and her eyes stung for some reason she did not understand, but she did not cry." Why did Starling's eyes sting? This question has bothered me for a long time now. Second, has Mr. Harris described Starling's eyes, hair or her other physical features in any of his books?**

 **If you know the answer to any of these questions, please let me know.**


	6. Chapter 6

Rigorous fitting and several strikes of hammer later, the enclosure was tough enough to bear the continuous thrusting of the hogs trapped inside. The Sards were satisfied, it would hold. Mogli was arranging dozens of plastic crates, to be used to transport food for the pigs, in a pyramid-like fashion along the wall.

Carlo wiped the sweat from his forehead and turned to look at Dr. Lecter. He couldn't detect any worry on his face. His eyes were closed. His captive was nearing his death but he wasn't playing the helpless and panicky victim that Carlo was used to. It was an exception in Carlo's experience and he hated exceptions.

Bubbles of rage popped in his cold blood as he approached the Doctor, a stag's tooth flicking in and out of his mouth.

"You killed my brother, Matteo. Apologize and I may be merciful when the time comes. Otherwise, you are going to die a painful death, Dottore," Carlo hissed.

Sparks flew behind Dr. Lecter's eyes when they opened. Due to the intensity of floodlights the effect was pretty dramatic, forcing Carlo to take a step back, fresh beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

"Matteo must smell worse than you by now. He shit when I cut him."

Carlo spat the tooth out and his jaw set in determination. He removed his leather belt and wound the strap at one end twice around his hand. He swung the buckled end at Dr. Lecter's face. The impact against his cheek made a ferocious slapping sound that echoed off the walls, attracting attention of others. Dr. Lecter didn't even wince.

Three more fierce slaps and then the belt was replaced with a pocket knife. But before Carlo could plunge the stainless steel in the Doctor's eye, Tommaso coiled his arms around his torso, effectively constraining his movements. Mogli came running, snatched the knife from him and threw it away.

"We won't get a penny if we torture this motherfucker before time. So calm your titties!" Mogli rumbled over Carlo's screaming and cursing.

It was a struggle to get him out of the barn but they managed.

Blood oozed out of the nasty cut on Dr. Lecter's temple and rivulets flowed down the side of his face, which had borne the brunt of Carlo's tantrum. The difference between the two sides of his face couldn't have been clearer. His diaphragm flexed as he inhaled deeply, wanting to reduce the intensity of the pain by diverting his attention to the scents carried by the moisture-laden breeze, seeping through the cracks in the walls.

He separated the unwanted odors- filthy smell of pigs' shit, stink of sweat, overwhelming odor of manure and native red soil, and what's that?

…A mild note of cinnamon and Evyan skin cream?

A quick turn of head and his eyes caught a flash of red, just as it disappeared behind a wooden plank inclined against the wall to his right, near the entrance.

He had to make sure his senses weren't deceiving him. Far-fetched but probable. Another deep breath and then he knew.

Clarice Starling was here.

Taking advantage of the distraction caused by the duel between Carlo and Dr. Lecter, Starling had sneaked in through the narrow opening in the barn's entrance gate and stealthily hid behind a plank nearby.

She remained hidden but once Carlo and company departed, peeked through one of the holes in the plank.

For the first time in almost seven years, Starling looked at Dr. Lecter and the effect was exactly the same as the first time. The hair on her forearms stood erect. Her ears were ringing for no reason but the humming of blood was audible. She could feel the viscosity offered to the fluid by her jugular vein.

Dr. Lecter's eyes were half-closed and his irises shone like rubies in the distance. Such was the charm of the devil that her gaze flickered to his widow's peak before traveling downwards to inspect the damage. His left cheek was red and swollen due to Carlo's beating, she noted, maybe the cheekbone was broken. Unknowingly, her fingers curled to make a fist and nails dug into her palms, depth just short of drawing blood.

She watched him take a deep breath. When his head jerked in her direction, her breathing stopped. Taken off-guard, she ducked as though a bullet had been fired at her. Well, Dr. Lecter's gaze was as piercing as a bullet, perhaps more.

 _How did he-?_

She mentally chided herself for being surprised.

 _Never forget what he is._

Grunting noises and creaking of the wooden gate were the only sounds her ears could detect. She peered through the hole again, deliberately ignoring the area around the mast where Dr. Lecter was restrained. Shuffling muscular feet of the beasts were visible through the clearance of the Dutch gate. Apart from that, she couldn't detect any movement. They were alone, she concluded.

For the next minute or so, Starling's mind raced.

 _What should I do?_

 _I don't know for how long Mason's henchmen will be away._

 _This is a golden opportunity._

 _Yes!_

 _No, wait!_

 _No colt. Not even a pair of handcuffs!_

 _Dr. Lecter is one of the most dangerous man on the face of the planet. I can get in real trouble if I don't think this through thoroughly._

Trouble. Danger. _Balls._

Starling emerged from her hiding place and jogged toward the mast.

"Good evening, Clarice." Dr. Lecter's eyes crackled as he held her whole.

"Can you walk? Are your legs working?"

"Straight down to business, eh, Agent Starling? Yes."

"Can you see all right?"

"Yes."

Staying clear of his lethal mouth, Starling circled him once to study the bonds.

With his eyes, Dr. Lecter gestured toward the knife Mogli had thrown away minutes ago. Starling picked it up and approached him, slowly this time.

"I'm going to cut you loose. With all due respect, Doctor, if you fuck with me, I'll pierce your heart. No second thoughts. Do you understand that?"

"Perfectly."

"Do right and you'll live through this."

"Spoken like a Protestant," Dr. Lecter couldn't help but comment.

The blade was sharp. Coupled with the systematic to and fro of her hand, his right arm was free in no time.

"I can do the rest if you hand me the knife."

"Ha! Ha! Very funny."

Dr. Lecter's lips twitched.

Her eyes kept note of his free arm while she worked on his remaining bonds.

In his peripheral vision, Dr. Lecter caught the gleam of a barrel.

Starling stiffened as his arm flew to her shoulder at lightning fast speed, pushing her away just as a dart was fired from the tranquilizer gun. It missed her shoulder by an inch and dug into the mast.

Starling fell on the ground headfirst, instantly dizzy.

Piero cursed at the miss and began to holler, calling his brothers.

With savage strength, Dr. Lecter sheared his bonds, already weakened by Starling's rigorous work with the knife.

Carlo, Tommaso, Mogli and two native Indians- Chaudhry and Memon entered the barn, and saw the loose ropes at the mast and Starling motionless on the ground nearby.

Mogli saw a figure backing fast toward the enclosure and yelled, "Sumbitch is there. Shut the gate! Shut it!"

It took the strength of two men to slide the entrance gate shut, thus eliminating the narrow passage-way completely.

The sudden spike in noises and motions led to an exponential increase in activity inside the cage. The hogs could smell the adrenaline of their potential preys, secreting plenty of their own. Thrusts into the gate were getting louder and stronger with each passing second.

Tommaso and Memon ran toward the Doctor, hoping the lack of food and daylong stiffness would have dried some of his wiry strength.

Dr. Lecter waited for them to come near, then deciding upon an opportune moment, pulled the dead bolts on the Dutch gate. The hogs came loose.

Frantic screams followed as Tommaso and Memon collapsed. Incisors and canines tore off their clothes, now mere tatters, and dug into the warm flesh. Blood flowed. Lots of it. Sea of red.

Mogli's feet were numb from the sight he was witnessing. Carlo and Chaudhry tried to slide open the gate with their shaking hands. It didn't budge an inch.

Resorting to the last feasible option, the goons fumbled toward the crates, attracting the hogs' attention. Some of the pigs followed but they managed to climb atop the pyramid, narrowly escaping the bloody teeth and consequent death.

Starling hadn't moved from her spot. She was lying on the ground, the position favored by the hunters for their preys. As the haze surrounding her brain cleared, Starling took in what was unfolding before her eyes.

Near the enclosure, the hogs climbed one over another to get to the flesh. Tommaso's painful screams subsided as his face turned into a bloody pulp. Memon, half-eaten, was already dead.

Starling saw a pregnant sow square her feet to her and lower her head, ready to charge. Intense fear like nothing she'd experienced before overcame her senses and she was unable to even lift an arm, let alone run.

 _This is it. This is gonna be my end._

Suddenly, Dr. Lecter's trousered legs appeared in front of her and she clutched them tightly, holding on for dear life. When he faced the hogs and they smelled no fear, they trouted back to the easy pickings on the ground and hounding the goons who reeked of fear.

Starling's jaw dropped. She had told Ardelia once that Dr. Lecter's superhuman abilities and fiendish characteristics were exaggerated. That he wasn't the wolf man. Now she wasn't so sure.

Dr. Lecter pocketed Carlo's knife quickly. Starling didn't protest-couldn't protest-when he lifted her in his strong arms and carried her through the sea of tossing backs and blood sprays in the barn. Using minimal strength, he turned the locks on the entrance gate with the hand underneath Starling's limbs, opening it a fraction.

Once outside, the change of scenery helped Starling overcome her initial shock. She broke the lock of fingers behind his neck and promptly shuffled to her feet.

"Which way, Clarice?" Dr. Lecter was quick to ask.

In her mind, Starling went through the routes of escape available. Going west was out of the question because of the cliff. North and east led to the jungles. Going back south, the way she came here, seemed the only plausible option.

The howls emanating from inside the barn attracted the attention of others. A shotgun pellet rammed into soil one feet in front of them and Starling ducked by reflex. A couple of men, most probably goons, going by the shotguns and machetes in their hands, were rushing toward them. They were coming from south, virtually blocking her preferred means of escape.

 _What to do now?_


	7. Chapter 7

The goons were approaching. Four of them. Hands occupied with weapons, rusted and ordinary, used and reliable. Fatal.

One moment, Starling's eyes were zooming in on a trigger and the finger coiled around it, the next moment, she was being pulled to her feet. She found herself running. Running, tripping over, then running again. Dr. Lecter to her right, her hand in his, his steps in resonance with hers. To her left, shadows. Sharp and true at first, blurring with each step as though imitating the awareness of her mind.

Who was beside her again? She couldn't recall.

A hindrance, three rows of wood nailed on columns grounded every six feet, waist-high. Easy to climb over.

Dr. Lecter looked back over his shoulder after clearing the fence. The goons were close behind. One of them yelled at the top of his lungs, "Rukna mat! Peechha karte raho!" (Don't stop! Keep following!)

The goons followed Dr. Lecter and Starling to the jungles.

Starling was too incoherent to notice that the meagre but assuring light keeping them company until a minute ago was consumed by the pitch dark they were now traversing through. The hooting of an owl was processed as background noise, nothing consequential. Her feet were swollen, congested in her boots. Her nerves were raw and thankfully, insensitive. The hand grasping hers was her only guide to reality and she followed it with complete devotion. Thorns of bushes punctured her skin, drawing blood. Abrasive surfaces of lower branches offered resistance but she kept going. Right till the time she couldn't.

Starling saw everything from a distance. The itching of her skin seemed unreal, her surroundings seemed unreal, the person leading her seemed unreal, but the churning in her stomach was very, very real.

When she couldn't take it anymore, she pulled at Dr. Lecter's hand forcefully, halting their movements.

The fatigue of the journey, lack of sleep, accompanying anxiety and physical exertions of the evening had taken a toll on her body. She was spent, too exhausted to carry on.

Starling bent over and puked her guts out. Acid and remnants of a turkey sandwich eaten half a day ago befouled her mouth, provoking further retching.

Voices behind them were getting stronger with each passing second.

When Starling had emptied the contents of her stomach, Dr. Lecter tugged at her hand, still firmly embedded in his. "Come on, Clarice."

The voice was from a long time ago. The way it rolled the 'R' in her name was familiar, the emphasis on the second syllable was distinct. Whose was it?

The muscles of her calves were burning and her head was whirling. She was struggling to remain conscious.

"I can't run anymore." The words barely managed to squeeze through her constricting throat, stagnating, stilling in the dense air accusatorially.

Dr. Lecter ran a quick scan of their surroundings and spotted a tremendous _shisham_ (Indian rosewood) a few meters to his right.

He pulled at Starling's hand. "Just a few steps, Clarice. Come on."

Ignoring the legitimate urges of her body, Starling took a step upon prompting, and collapsed. She shook her head, in what she would have viewed as shameful defeat, had her mind been in better command of her senses. "I can't."

Without wasting any more time, Dr. Lecter lifted her and ran toward the _shisham_. The tree was crooked, slightly bent to the right, creating a narrow passage at the base, surrounded by gnarled roots radiating out from the soil. He inspected the passage and found that it was sufficiently spacious. The entrance to it was narrow, though.

Dr. Lecter placed Starling against the tree trunk and dug into the soil to create space.

Light from the pen torches peeked through the bushes. The goons were really close now. It didn't take more than one-tenth of a second for his competent senses to calculate the timing of their impending arrival and his motor efforts were multiplied correspondingly.

With the skill of a python, Dr. Lecter burrowed his way into the passage and somehow managed to wiggle Starling inside.

A few seconds of itching silence and then he could hear trotting and panting and cursing noises outside.

From his vantage point, he could see the goons as well as the weapons they were carrying. He could have taken them down without much effort but the guns complicated the situation. The risk was too much, not worth the exertions it demanded. Not when there was a perfectly harmless alternative available.

The goons gathered in a huddle.

"Kis taraf gaye vo?" (In which direction did they go?)

"Pata nahi. Is taraf chalke dekhte hain." (Don't know. Let's go look in this direction.)

They rushed further into the forest.

Starling was grateful for the break. Her mind was reeling and she needed rest. It didn't matter whether she was on a soft bed in the most expensive suite of the Hotel Mariott or in this congested space underneath a tree in the jungle. A need is fundamentally different from a want, elementary, no details are necessary. Easy to satisfy.

She could sense another body beside her, feel the warmth of it against her trembling frame. The broad expanse of a chest, solid and welcoming, against her cheek, and the rhythm of a heart in her ear. Real. Very real. Not hers. Slow. Comforting.

Her eyelids drooped. She was being lulled into the arms of sleep but she resisted, on a premonition.

A hand guided the red locks on her face behind her ear. Gentle strokes on her cheek for five seconds atmost before it slithered behind her head, resting there.

The gesture was familiar. Too familiar. Remote, at the same time. Distant, childhood memory. A span of twenty five years.

Real or imaginary? Hard to tell.

A tiny tear escaped the confines of her eyelids. Not because of nostalgia. But because she knew it would be snatched away from her yet again. Experience had taught her to lean on the pessimistic side of the equation, whenever an occasion presented itself. That was a hundred times better than getting your hopes up only to be shattered sometime later. Nonetheless, that didn't stop her from wanting the moment to last until it was etched on her mind.

The last words to caress her ears before she finally gave in to nihility were, "Go to sleep, Clarice."

 _Dr. Lecter..._ That was her last conscious thought.

Subconsciously commanded, her hands gripped fistful of fabric in their vicinity with so much force that it hurt. She didn't care.

The lambs fell silent for the night.

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"Wake up, Clarice," a strange voice called to her in the gentlest of tones. Starling was on the threshold of consciousness but decided to ignore it.

"Uummmphh," she mumbled irritably when water was sprinkled on her face.

Again, "Wake up, Clarice."

Starling decided to gratify whoever was bothering her, ninety per cent certain that it was Ardelia. Her eyes fluttered open but her vision was unclear. To remedy that, she blinked a couple of times and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

"Ardelia, how many times have I told you-" Her voice died in her throat once a pair of maroon orbs, inches away from her face, came into focus.

Sirens went off in her mind, the dose of adrenaline in her bloodstream surging. In a flash, she was up and taking staggering steps backward.

"Dr. Lecter, stay where you are or I'll-" Instinctively, she slapped her hip where her colt no longer resided, the color of realization deteriorating her features further.

"You don't have your gun, Clarice," Dr. Lecter stated the obvious, more for affect than anything and a second later chimed, "Fortunate for me as I don't have any weapon either." Carlo's knife in his pocket was light, almost weightless. Solid.

 _Except for your teeth,_ Starling's mind supplied.

As though reading her thought, Dr. Lecter's lips curved upward, his small, white teeth coming into view. He stood up and Starling tensed, ready to run if the need arose.

"You seem too fidgety for your own good, Clarice. It is better if you regain your motor functions gradually. Calm down. I assure you I mean no harm," he said and raised his hands, palms facing her in mock surrender.

 _Don't believe him. Do not believe a word he says!_

Starling's eyes jogged between his bare hands and the smile gracing his lips.

Dr. Lecter had an uncanny ability to convince anyone with the simplest of gestures. An expression as simple as a smile would have been just that- a smile in anybody else's case but it was a tool to disarm his opponent for the Psychiatrist in him.

As expected, it worked. Starling was subdued despite protests from her brain.

When her posture eased, she noticed her surroundings and gasped. Her mind replayed the events of the previous night, recalling everything upto the point when a shotgun pellet had rammed into soil in front of her. Everything thereafter was a blur. Not one to prefer to intentionally remain in dark, she thought hard to reclaim the missing strings of her memory.

The undue pressure was too much for her brain to bear at the moment, causing it to ache, the magnitude of pain aggravating with time. Her hands shot to her temples, massaging vigorously to bring relief. The attempt proved unsuccessful and a groan escaped her lips.

"Clarice, are you alright?" Dr. Lecter asked in concern and took a step toward her.

"Stay where you are. Do not approach me," she said, the distress in her voice making it sound more like a plea than a warning.

The pain was unbearable and her legs couldn't take her weight any longer. She slumped down, her back against a tree for support. She shut her eyes with so much force that tears leaked out, wetting her eyelashes as she whimpered in agony.

In the blink of an eye, Dr. Lecter was face-to-face with her yet again, peeling her hands off her head and replacing them with his deft fingers. Powerless to protest, Starling gripped his wrists firmly as he pressed his index and middle fingers into her temples, using as much force as he deemed necessary, and smoothed her eyebrows with his thumbs.

Her cries ceased within seconds as the migraine reduced and finally vanished. Her grip on his wrists pacified as well.

"Clarice, open your eyes in your own time. Slowly, very slowly."

Starling obliged and didn't flinch this time upon seeing his face close to hers. Her hands left his forearms and glided to her sides, almost apologetically. He brought the neck of the water bottle to her mouth and ordered, "Drink."

Starling reclined her head back, eyes never leaving his, and took three small sips.

"Feeling better?"

"Much." A beat. "Thank you."

Dr. Lecter nodded and took a step back, still in a sitting position.

"May I trouble you with a question?" Starling asked.

"Certainly."

"Where are we and how did we get here?"

Dr. Lecter had anticipated this query. "How much do you remember?"

"Coming out of the barn and the shotgun blast. After that, nothing. Blank."

Dr. Lecter answered, "We ran for the jungles and Mason's henchmen followed. You were exhausted and threw up, and couldn't run anymore. I managed to find a safe passage underneath that tree _._ We hid there as the goons passed by. You lost consciousness and I let you sleep for six hours before I woke you."

Starling averted her eyes to the graying leaves of the rosewood as she processed the incidents. There wasn't any relief in knowing that she had emerged unscathed after spending a night in a congested space with a cannibal. That wasn't odd. Partially due to the increase in the threshold of her tolerance in the last two days. The bubbles of fear erupting in her system along with the waves of respite on reliving her confrontation with the hogs and Dr. Lecter's actions, was her leeway, and she took it. For her own sanity. She didn't consider the advantage she'd offered to Dr. Lecter due to the same.

"Thank you, Clarice for saving my life." His words fell on deaf ears as Starling was too deep into her thoughts.

He snapped his fingers in front of her face, commanding her attention. "Huh…what?"

"I said, thank you, Clarice for saving my life. I'm in your debt."

Starling waited for him to interrogate her about her motives for saving him in the same cold voice that he had used to delve into her psyche seven years ago. When he didn't, she realized his gratitude was genuine. Atleast it was packaged as such. "I saved you from Mason and you saved me from the boars. Dr. Lecter, we're even," she replied, meaning every word.

Dr. Lecter, thumb under his chin, finger touching his upper lip, regarded her with cold, unblinking eyes. It resembled a moment of one of her earlier encounters with him. Only now there weren't any steel bars. No nylon net either. No Barney. No Pembry or Boyle, their bodies cold in the earth. Craving a distraction, her tired eyes flickered to the water bottle and got as wide as saucers.

She jumped to her feet. "Where did you get that bottle?"

"From your pants' pocket, of course."

"You searched me! How dare you touch me without my permission!" Her words were fire.

"It would have been absurd, needless to say moot, to ask for permission from a limp body beside myself, don't you think? The water was for your benefit, Clarice. I assumed-"

"Assumed? You don't have the right to assume anything concerning me, okay? For God's sakes, keep your assumptions to yourself!"

Dr. Lecter's head was inclined upward to face her, tilted at a small angle to the side. He considered her harsh, accusing gaze with abstraction, trying to decipher the thoughts behind those eyes which still shone like birthstones.

 _Your way of getting control of the situation, hmm, Clarice? My! How much you loathe being driven. Same as before. Excellent._

And then Starling heard those words she never thought she'd hear from him. Not in a thousand years.

"You're right. I shouldn't have assumed. Forgive me for the unnecessary intrusion on your person."

Her skin tingled in victory, the effect more pronounced than the first time she had fired the winning shot at the Inter-service Pistol Championship. She didn't know how to celebrate then and she didn't know now.

The victory came at a price. The very fact that she regarded it as a win for her meant she had been harboring intentions to prove something to him for deceiving her. Revenge wasn't something she considered in a positive light. At the same time, she wanted him to know that she was better prepared to deal with his antics now than she was seven years ago.

Amidst all this mind-churning, Starling did what she always did. Proceeded to the next course of action.

Starling took out a map from her pocket. It was soggy from the moisture it had absorbed from the soil all night and didn't rustle when she unfurled it. She sat down with the map in front of her and beckoned Dr. Lecter to sit opposite her. Dr. Lecter found her confidence charming.

She took a deep breath and began, "Okay. We're somewhere around here (makes a cross on the map with her finger). The farm is to the west, so obviously we can't go that way. We can't take the route I used to get here either as the farm is in the way. That leaves us with the only option to cross the jungles. Travelling south-east seems logical as the stretch is narrowest in that direction. See? Small towns are highlighted here, on the outskirts. We need to reach there. What do you think?"

Coorg was the nearest village from where they were. They would have to wander through the wild for days to reach there.

Days to get there. Days alone with Clarice. Days to quantify the probability of bringing Mischa back.

"I concur." His eyes conveyed a lot more than the two words that left his mouth.

"Good." She folded the map and placed it back into her pocket.

Path chosen, it was time to devise a strategy. Dr. Lecter took the lead. Unsurprising, considering he needed his fun every now and then. "Clarice, we both know under normal circumstances we'd be on opposite ends. You're a law enforcer and I'm a criminal. But these are extraordinary circumstances and conventional terms won't work here."

Apprehensive, Starling asked, "What are you trying to say, Dr. Lecter?"

His scrutiny was hot as lava. "I'm trying to tell you that you'll have to quench your inner voice of morality for as long as we're together, forget for the time being that you're the law. If I sense any deception at your end at any time, I'll be forced to take extreme measures."

Starling visibly shuddered at his warning.

"Let me propose a truce till we reach our destination. After all, we'll have to work together to cross the jungles."

Starling pondered for a few minutes. The circumstances were indeed extraordinary; crossing a tropical deciduous forest wasn't a joke after all. Add to that her inexperience with anything remotely connected to nature and she didn't stand any chance alone. The probability of her survival was much better with Dr. Lecter, however ironic that might sound in any other context.

But she knew better than to surrender completely. She needed to appear strong. She needed to make it clear to him that she wasn't the twenty five year old agent-in-training whom he had tricked on more than one occasion in the past.

"I'll accept your deal, Doctor if you agree to my ground rules." When he didn't say anything, she continued, "First we are to maintain atleast an arm's distance from each other at all times. Second we are to see each other as equals. Decisions are to be made with consensus."

Dr. Lecter was impressed. He knew all too well it was a bluff. He was her only chance of survival but she was trying to be authoritative in the hope that he wouldn't dismiss her at every turn. Clever girl. It was in his very nature to ignore what others thought in light of his own superior intellect. And it was in Starling's DNA not to be taken for granted, ever.

Some of the features of their characters were miles apart and he mused what this clash would bring about in the days to come. He had high hopes, for the last time they had sparred, the results had been highly entertaining. To him and of course, to _The Tattler._

"Agreed."

Starling was taken aback at his compliance but she hid it well.

The next minute passed with Starling laying down instructions for herself. _Aim:_ _Don't get chewed to pieces by that lethal mouth. Is that clear, Agent? Aye, aye, Sir._ _For that: One, never give him your back. Two, never close your eyes before him. Three, stay hyper-alert at all times. Four…_

As they stood up, Dr. Lecter said, "Since we came that way, that's west. (Turns about) So that would be east. That means, south-east is this way." With a sweep of his hand, he gestured toward the intended route, "Shall we?"

"After you," she said politely, trying to veil her hesitation.

And so began the journey of a lifetime, a journey that would change their lives dramatically, the measure of which unbeknownst to them at the moment.


	8. Chapter 8

A rectangular, single floored structure stood wistfully on the perimeter of the farm. Newly white-washed and reasonably equipped, its walls were lined with Mitsubishi condensers whirring out hot air on the sweaty frames of twenty well-built men gathered outside

R132a flowed through the pipes affixed to the walls and the patterned ceiling, terminating in several ceiling-recessed cassette-evaporators, completing the state-of-the-art AC systems. The artificial coldness inside the room was in sync with the frozen state of minds of people huddled around the king-sized bed supporting the weight of their current master.

Mason's lidless eyeball shifted from face to face, moving from Carlo to Piero to Chaudhry to Mogli, and again in the reverse order. Likewise, the eyes of the goons roamed animatedly from one medical equipment to the next. Both parties seemed content with the status quo; neither wanted to make the breakthrough, the goons to hide their failures and Mason to bask in the contentment of the past two days for a few more minutes.

Through the open blinds of a window in the corner, the barn was visible in the distance. The main gate was completely shut. Better that way. The barn which was supposed to be the witness to the tragedy planned for Dr. Lecter, was now the graveyard of Tommaso, Memon and the hogs. Harbinger of ills and a symbol of wrong turns for the people themselves harboring ill-wills, order had been issued to burn the damn thing down to the ground.

The silence was too powerful to wilfully ignore any longer. Carlo's voice seemed over-excited when he broached the subject of their gathering, hand-gestures a little over the top, hurried and shabby, "How were we supposed to know that Starling woman would do something like that? How did she even know where we were taking him?" Then in a feeble tone, "Listen, it wasn't our fault."

The reddish outlines of the blood vessels on Mason's restored half-face stood out against the white pillow, giving him a more gory appearance than usual. "Is anything ever your fucking fault?! Actually it was my fault to hire you in the first place. First, you fools missed the opportunity to capture him in Florence. Then you imbeciles let Starling witness Lecter's kidnapping. And if that wasn't enough, now you let her escape with him whilst-"

"It wasn't like that-" Carlo tried to interject only to be cowed down by the froth forming between Mason's front teeth.

Minutes ticked by in silent contemplation.

"Chaudhry, your men have returned from the search, haven't they? Did they find any clue about Lecter and that bitch?" Mason asked.

Chaudhry shook his head reluctantly, searching for words to supply the bad news to his boss. "No. Mmhhh," he cleared his throat. "No clue."

The only motions Mason was capable of doing were confined to his left hand, which he jerked in anger and disappointment. "Goddammit! It's not like they can vanish into thin air. They are out there somewhere."

Mogli spoke up, "Their dead bodies will appear in a week, two max. I mean, without proper resources, nobody can survive these jungles."

Mason's good eye flashed at him and he retorted, "Wise up, you stupid fuck! Don't you know Lecter? He has skin as thick as an elephant. Son of a bitch can survive an apocalypse. Crossing these jungles is a child's play for that beast."

Rest of the goons agreed silently. They had been firsthand witnesses of Dr. Lecter's strange authority over the hogs the previous night. Not much surprised them, considering their business. Last night had. Piero, more superstitious than his partners, considered it voodoo; the boars had had no choice but to worship the devil, obey His commandments.

Sensing a headache approaching, Mason barked absently, "Cordell, make me a Martini. Quick."

Cordell, sitting on the couch beside Margot, sprang to his feet upon hearing his master's order.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Mason. Your blood pressure is over the roof," Margot tried to reason.

"Shut your mouth, you brainless cunt! Speak only when you're spoken to!" Mason, blind in his fury, lashed out.

Margot's eyes ignited dangerously. Afraid that she might do something foolish before time, she stood up and stormed out the door, banging it shut on her way out.

"What are you waiting for?!" Mason yelled at Cordell, who was dumbly staring at the door. "Make it strong. Be generous with the tequila. And use the tears I preserved from my trip to Africa. Occasions like these require strong drinks."

With an obedient nod, Cordell left.

Earlier, torture was Mason's preferred mode for coping with difficult situations. One time, his father had refused to buy him a monster truck due to his bad behavior and he had dealt with the situation by setting one of the houseboys on fire. Now paralyzed and dependent, torture had lost its appeal. No longer competent to set somebody on fire or stab someone in the thigh with his own hands, he had distanced himself from the physical and taken refuge in a less action-prone but equally effective method. Words have the ability to act as acid if stirred well by tongue. Physical injuries heal overtime but scars instigated by words remain forever. Identifying this venom for what it was, verbal barbs had become his favorite torture tools. His guillotine. A new coping mechanism.

In better control of his temper after a hissy fit, Mason asked, "Chaudhry, what are our options now?"

Chaudhry had been waiting for this particular question. He had prepared well for it. "Well, I have two plans. Choose whichever you find appropriate. Plan A: We look for Lecter by flying choppers over the jungles. Keep in mind that in some parts, the canopy is really thick. The method is time-saving but chances of our success are slim. Plan B: I have twenty strong men. Loyal. Capable. Add us to the list and the total comes to twenty four. I say we begin combing operations on ground ASAP. We'll divide ourselves into small groups and search in all directions till we find Lecter and Starling. Chances of our success are better. The only limitation I see is time. It might be weeks before we actually find them."

The obvious question followed. "Can't you do both? Search on ground as well as use helicopters?"

"I don't have enough men for that," Chaudhry replied, helplessly.

A thoughtful pause.

"You go ahead with the combing operations on ground. I'll arrange for more men and choppers. There won't be any compromises on my part. No way am I gonna let Lecter away again!"

Mason recited the last words like a mantra as the goons left and for a considerable time after their departure... _No way am I gonna let Lecter away again. No way in hell!_

That afternoon, Pawanhans Helicopter Services, headquartered in Bangalore, dispatched three choppers from their advanced fleet, reserved for government business only, upon a onetime transaction in green bills to their Swiss Bank account, received from the Verger Industries.

Ex-convicts, enrolled for muscle jobs in a discrete private firm, were hired as well.

The game was on.

* * *

Clarice Starling was a strong woman, fit as anyone at her age and in her profession can be. Well-rehearsed in arm breakers, DDTs, powerslams and numerous other takedowns, she was undoubtedly a first rate product of the training grounds at Quantico. On several occasions during the course, she had humbled classmates twice her size in one-on-one contests.

The same Clarice Starling, trudging through the nasty jungle behind Dr. Lecter, was receiving the beating of her life at the hands of an untested enemy- Nature. Constantly being slapped by fronds and twisting herself in ductile green vines was doing a number on her otherwise in-control temper.

 _Goddamn! Shit! Christ on a cracker! Fuck fuckety fuck! …_ She couldn't recall the last time she had used so many curse words in one go to mellow her surprise or relieve anger.

Dr. Lecter, on the other hand, walked at his own pace, seemingly oblivious of the struggle of his partner. Curse after curse, directed at the vegetation, reached his ears from behind but he didn't turn around once to keep Starling from reacting to his amused features. In any other case, he would have found the use of such vile language derogatory to the decorum of company but coming from the mouth of Clarice Starling and that too coated in her West Virginia accent, it was fun in a sort of way he wasn't used to, and new experiences were always welcomed. This was Clarice Starling at her roots. Rudimentary. Unpolished with undeveloped edges. Splattered. No filing done by societal norms and etiquettes yet. He could get used to it, he mused.

Another important reason for his apathy was that he wanted to cover as much distance as possible on this first day. He knew Mason, adamant that he was, would send his cronies after him as soon as possible, and he wanted a decent head start on them. Unfortunately, Starling's current predicament didn't feature in this great scheme of things; her struggle was preferable over their death.

Although hassled by the unwanted annoyances in her way, Starling kept moving, the metaphorical badge of 'strong woman' on her torso encouraging her on. She was unaware of the trouble awaiting her.

The high-pitched call of a Shikra (Indian sparrowhawk) startled Starling, and she lost her footing. With a shriek, she fell on a nearby bush. This finally attracted the attention of Dr. Lecter who turned around and saw her lying awkwardly on her back, propped on her elbows, one leg invisible, courtesy of the bush and the other bent at the knee in an unusual manner.

Her auburn hair were disheveled, covering the better part of her face. She saw Dr. Lecter looking at her through the gaps between her unceremonious locks and her cheeks flushed red in embarrassment. She shook her head to slide off the strands from her face and tried to get up.

Halfway up, the Shikra called one more time, and she started anew. Again, she lost her footing and fell on the ground ungracefully, regaining her previous awkward position.

That did it! Clarice Starling lost her temper and shrieked at such high frequency that all the sparrowhawks within a mile-radius flew away, perhaps never to return.

Flushed and irritated, she got up hurriedly, daring the sparrowhawk or any other bird for that matter to make a sound. Her right foot was still trapped in the thick bush. She tried to get it free by writhing violently, like a fish out of water. Not only did it not work but apparently, her efforts were making the situation worse as more of her leg was disappearing into the bush with each movement.

"Ugghhh! Son of a bitch!" she screamed agitatedly after a minute of hard work, lowering her head in defeat.

Dr. Lecter, hands entwined and resting on his lower back, came at his leisurely pace and stopped an arm's distance short of her. Starling slowly raised her head and noticed the distance between them. One look at his face and she flushed further. Dr. Lecter remained mute. No words were needed, the distance mocked her enough.

Another five minutes of twisting and turning and trying to break free before Starling gave up for good. Her leg had gone rigidly numb by now. She looked at Dr. Lecter, who was standing patiently where he was minutes ago, a silent spectator of her obstinacy, and muttered a silent, "Please."

Her expectations of arrogant words and stinging taunts weren't met. Instead, Dr. Lecter gave a simple nod of understanding. A pleasant surprise for Starling. Her irritation with her own failure remained steadfast, though.

 _Four hours to break the first ground rule. Great going, Starling! Just great!_

Dr. Lecter's hand went into his pocket to retrieve Carlo's knife. When he took it out, Starling stiffened, embarrassment giving way to shock.

"Whoa, hold on a sec. You said you didn't have any weapons!" she accused.

He cast an apathetic look at the knife in his hand as if it was nothing more than a triviality and coolly replied, "I stand by my statement."

Bewildered, Starling all but screamed, "Then how do you explain that thing in your hand?!"

"This? It's a pocket knife. Remember, you cut me loose with it in the barn? I believe it belonged to Carlo before I claimed it in-"

"It's a weapon! You lied to me, Dr. Lecter."

Dr. Lecter's face darkened. "Are you calling me a liar, Clarice?"

"Yes, I am. You clearly stated that you didn't possess any weapon. 'Fortunate for me as I don't have any weapon either' are the words I believe you used."

"Perhaps we differ in our understanding of weapons, Clarice. A pocket knife might fall into that specific category for you. It doesn't for me." Dr. Lecter was back to his nonchalant self.

"A harpy is a weapon for you but a pocket knife isn't! What...umm...discrimination, for lack of a better word! If that knife doesn't serve the purpose of a weapon for you, then what is its use, if I may ask?"

"Well, as of this moment, I would like to use it to get you free from your entanglements. But if you're not amenable to that, then I believe we have reached an impasse, Clarice."

A long minute of staring before Starling gave up. "Fine. Go ahead. But I want that knife after you're done."

Dr. Lecter shrugged. "Whatever calms your fears."

In his own time, he took a measured step forward and bent down, hands disappearing into the bush. Starling, cautious and tensed, kept both eyes opened as the sharp blade cut the leaf tendrils and frond tentacles. He disentangled the vegetation from her ankle and lower leg, relieving the bonds, making it easier for her to pull her leg out.

She punched her thigh and calf a few times to get the circulation going. Sweat appeared on her forehead as needles prickled her leg, sending waves of pleasurable pain through her nerves. It took a minute for her to regain composure.

"Thank you, Dr. Lecter. Now the knife please?" she requested with her hand outstretched. Her face betrayed no emotions.

"Of course." Dr. Lecter placed the knife on her palm. While withdrawing, his index finger brushed the superficial vein on her wrist, only for a millisecond. Her elevated pulse revealed more about her inner struggle than she was letting on, and Dr. Lecter had to concede a smile. Brave Clarice.

His touch, whether accidental or intentional, sent a jolt of electricity through her body. Like that time when the tip of her finger had touched his in Memphis. That touch and her subsequent reaction was still an unresolved mystery to her. Like the first taste of a strong whiskey, its effect had remained on her system for several days. More like months. Actually years. Seven to be precise, and counting.

Not wanting to declare her befuddlement, she proceeded to the more pressing matters at hand. "Do you have any other knife or harpy or anything else that could be construed as a weapon?"

Dr. Lecter smiled at that, letting her know that her business-like tone wasn't good enough to fool him. "Construed as a weapon, hmm? By whom? You or me."

"Me."

"Let me think." Starling crossed her arms against her chest observing the forced crease on Dr. Lecter's forehead. Despite knowing he was deliberately making her wait to provoke a reaction, her insides began to seethe.

"Oh, come on!" Her hands flew up demonstratively.

"No."

"And by you?"

"Pardon?"

"Construed as a weapon by you?" Starling asked with her eyebrows raised.

"Oh. Again, no."

"Then why the hell did you differentiate in the first place?!"

A devilish smile was his only reply. It conveyed his answer. For fun.

In that moment, Starling had a sudden urge to kick his ass. It didn't matter that she knew she'd die before she could deliver any harm. She wanted to give in. But pragmatism took over and she relented. Other matters required her attentions. She couldn't trust his word.

Starling's eyes roamed over his body, head to toe, as though scanning for weapons.

"You're free to search me, Clarice if you don't believe me. You have my _permission._ I won't consider it as an intrusion I assure you," he mocked.

Of its own accord, her mind conjured a picture of herself searching him, stripping him of his shirt, her hands roaming over his muscular torso, wandering down to his abdomen, groping his…alalalalalalalalalala…She knocked the thoughts out before things got more imaginative (read: erotic).

Only this man had the ability to tumble the racks of her thoughts the way he did, arouse so many emotions within her in a span of ten seconds.

Her breaths were coming in heavy puffs and her heartbeat was breaking records. To make things worse, her eyes somehow found his. Dr. Lecter's face split into a knowing smile and she flustered.

With immense determination, she averted her eyes and grumbled, "That won't be necessary."

Not wishing to gratify him any longer, Starling walked past him with a swish.

 _Self-centered prick! Hasn't changed even a bit from his annoying self. Never should have come here to save his ass in the first place! Ardelia was right. Ardelia's always right! Remember that. There's a cliff and Ardelia asks you to jump, then jump! 'Cause Ardelia. Is. Always. Right._

Twenty steps later, Dr. Lecter's voice intruded, "Clarice, I believe the plan was to travel south-east."

Starling turned about, confused. "Yeah, so…?"

"So, why are you walking in the opposite direction?" His hands found their way into the pockets of his trousers.

It took two seconds for her to realize she had taken the route from where they came.

 _Oh crap! Crap! Crap! Crap!_

 _Okay. Damage control. Damage control. You can do it._

"Actually...I...um...south-east...go...you see..." _Fuck it! I can't do it._

Her hands balled into fists and she looked up helplessly at the sky through the gaps in the canopy, mumbling, "If you're up there, why are you doing this to me?"

Embarrassed beyond measure, she walked back the way she came, passing Dr. Lecter on her way. Again. No swish this time. Her gaze was lowered to prevent eye contact with him. She knew what she'd find there without looking. Vindication.

With a smug smile on his face, Dr. Lecter followed.


	9. Chapter 9

It would be incorrect to assume the Western Ghats to be a singular entity, for it flanks the entire south-western coast of the Indian peninsula. Forget the flora and fauna, the diversity of the nature of the forests in itself is astonishing. As one goes south along the stretch, withered grasslands in Gujarat wane into deciduous forests in Maharashtra and Karnataka before giving way to the fervent rainforests in Kerala. The transitions can be attributed to their respective proximities to the equator and that monsoon arrives in the mainland from the south, losing half its capacity as it makes impact with the coast and getting progressively weakened as it widens its domain while travelling further north.

The disparities in the rainfall received per annum is a direct consequence. Another related dissimilarity can be observed in the inherent densities of the jungles. Due to the mismatch between the heights of the trees of different species growing together, the canopy of a deciduous forest has appreciable breaks in it. That is not the case for a rainforest where the trees of the same species are clumped together.

Unlike last night, the sky was cloudless and the moon stood proud amidst an array of stars. Light filtered through the excuses in the canopy. However meagre, it was sufficient for a pair of extraordinarily sharp eyes to prove useful.

In the cacophony of the nighttime wilderness, footfalls could be distinctly heard. Dr. Lecter's. He made it a point that his steps were loud and certain in order to alert the local inhabitants of his presence.

Starling trailed him two steps behind like a zombie. The hoots and howls around her didn't concern her, the wheezing through the bushes failed to bother her. Compound leaves rustled through her naked forearms, inspiring a tingling sensation and Starling bore it with disinterest, uninclined to exercise her hands. Twelve hours of continuous walking with no nourishment had sapped all energies from her body.

With words begging for a much needed rest on the tip of her tongue, she looked at the backside of Dr. Lecter. His posture was as tall as anytime she had seen and the request died in her throat. A weary sigh. Four hours earlier, she had proposed a break for the day but the proposal had been rejected. Fearing it might make her look weak, she hadn't voiced it since. She kept on walking. Even if she knew she would pass out in the next half hour at this pace.

Luckily for Starling, having decided that sufficient distance had been put between them and the farm, Dr. Lecter was picking out a suitable place for them to rest for the night, that very instant. His eyes fell on a spot a short distance ahead of him. Manned by tall trees on three of its sides and devoid of bushes which were generally the residence of rodents or snakes, it offered a danger-free space as well as good protection. Leaves fallen from the trees, once green, now yellowish-orange, covered it wholly, making a comfortable cushion against stones and unevenness of the topography.

Satisfied with his discovery, Dr. Lecter stopped abruptly, causing Starling to bump into him. He turned around and said, "I think a break is in order, Clarice. We have been walking for too long."

 _Thank God._ The relief from his words showed on her face and Starling was too tired to hide it.

Dr. Lecter got to work immediately. Lumping the leaves under neighboring trees created two virtual mattresses. Minor adjustments here and there and they were good to go. Always the gentleman, he let Starling take her pick. He took the other one.

Resting against the tree trunk, Starling took out the water bottle from her pants' pocket. She shook it to determine the quantity of water left. Not more than half a finger worth. She took a sip, not swallowing immediately to prolong the relief a tad longer and offered the rest to Dr. Lecter.

"Thank you, Clarice." He took the bottle and drank whatever was left.

"No water. No food. Dr. Lecter, I hate to break it to you but I believe our journey will be cut short by our deaths," Starling said in a hoarse voice.

"No need to be so pessimistic, Clarice. Have you read any survival accounts lately? No? I presumed as much. If you did, you'd know mental toughness holds the key to survival. Human mind is a fascinating thing, you see. An ailing body can be cured by a placebo due to the incredible strength of the mind. On an opposite note, history is filled with examples of the annihilation of whole armies of thousands, the mightiest of their times, due to the slightest rumor of an epidemic. Morale is crucial. Half the battle is lost if your mind gives up."

"Indulge me for a moment here, Doctor. How does one keep the morale up in situations like these? When you know there are only difficult times ahead?"

His gaze was akin to that of a mathematics teacher being asked by a high school student what two plus two was. "By lying."

"Elaborate, please?"

"Do I really need to? I thought it was quite obvious." Dr. Lecter's head tilted a notch to the side in his signature style. ''Studies have shown that the mind can be tricked as easily as a five year old child. Interestingly, we do it every day, yet remain ignorant. An office worker bullied by his colleagues but afraid to stand up to them take it as minor humorous skirmishes. A snobbish woman overhears her husband talk dirtily to his secretary and believes her to be a tramp and him a victim. Why? To save her marriage and the riches it inevitably brings. Every day we lie to ourselves about our appearances, interests, preferences, ethics, obligations and whatnot. Does it come as a surprise to you, little Starling? Does it, now?"

His lecture flared the flames of her exhausted brain. "You're right, Doctor. It is obvious. Difficult to accept, nonetheless."

"I understand." He smiled. "Chew on it."

He began to lie down when her voice intruded, frail and weak as if she didn't want to be heard. "Don't call me that."

"What? Little Starling?"

"Yes, that. I'm a thirty three year old woman, not some little girl."

"Very well. Should I call you by your Christian name or would you rather it be _Agent Starling_?"

Something flashed across her face. Just for a second. Her reply was quick. Urgent, even. "Clarice is fine."

Their eyes met and held.

"What?" she asked impatiently after a minute.

"If I'm correct in my understanding, I gather you make it a point for every person you meet at work or outside to address you as _Agent Starling._ Yet you cringed when _I_ used your title. Why is that, I wonder?"

Shock was written in bold letters on her face. Had she cringed? She wasn't sure. Was it visceral? Maybe. Probability was high that he was simply messing with her.

Uncertain, Starling decided to revert back to comfortable terrains. "I believe we have deviated a lot from the original topic, Dr. Lecter. We are out of water."

"You say you're a thirty three year old woman, yet you hide under the bed like a little girl at the first hint of a difficult conversation. What happened, Clarice? Still afraid to confront your inner demons?" He waited for her response. The wait proved futile. "Don't worry about water. I'll take care of it tomorrow."

In a serious tone, "Are you lying to keep my morale up, Doctor?"

Dr. Lecter's smile was mischievous. "You'll know in good time." Without stating further, he lay down on his back, hands slithering over stomach, twining and resting there.

 _Will I ever get a straight answer from you, Dr. Lecter?_ Starling wondered.

A quiet minute. The Doctor resembled a sarcophagus in his pose as well as dedication to stillness.

Starling slid down, flexing her body in a half-sitting, half-lying position. Something poked at her shoulders and neck - scales of the grating trunk; at the back of her mind, flailing to come to the forefront - scales of a memory graded not so long ago. Rejuvenated by their talk, comfort was the last thing on her mind, so she ignored the former and picked up on the latter.

She, standing in front of the ruins of Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, pondering over any possibility she might have missed to excuse herself from going inside. Minutes later, standing in front of Dr. Lecter's cell and floating across the threshold as if in a spell. Occupying his space, expecting to tingle, feeling disappointment.

She glanced a look at, what she presumed, his sleeping form. Hannibal Lecter was eight feet away from her. She was well within his scope of effect. She could feel his presence, like she had wanted to that time in his vacant cell. Only now she knew better than to expect to tingle all over. She also knew she would if she recalled their first encounter. While pretty dramatic at times, life's trajectory is like a series of huge arcs joined together. You can hover at the side to observe the hill or slide, or appreciate the curves in retrospect, but while on it, it appears nothing but flat. Reactions aren't always textbook and it is a drawback. Ironically, variety is yearned. Life is no movie; there isn't any background score to help gauge the mood.

Moonlight sprinkled over Dr. Lecter's face, only half of it visible to Starling at the angle she was looking. A perfect opportunity to study his features without being accused of ogling.

His hair was the same as in Baltimore - charcoal black, slick and wholesome, neither too fine nor too dense. Forehead was the same size; hairline hadn't receded. Impressive. Her eyes traveled down to the stubble covering his jaw, giving him a rugged appearance. He had done some work on his cheeks but the nose and lips were the same. His face was more or less unchanged and Starling was all but certain he wore contacts to disguise the telltale color of his eyes during his time on the run. Anyone could have identified him if they had paid a little attention. With Pazzi's fate as the ultimate example to go by, it was better no one had.

Next she searched for signs of aging. Except for a few grey hairs on the sides above the ears, nothing. She used to think inexposure to the sun during his confinement had suppressed his wrinkles. Years later, his skin wasn't as pale as then, still wrinkles were, surprisingly, absent. The last seven years had been kind on him. Starling doubted, not for the first time, the number in the age box of his case file revealed his true age.

Her eyes remained fixed on his face while her vision blurred. She wasn't seeing, her attention had drifted elsewhere. Inward, on their confrontation that morning. Dr. Lecter telling her she was free to search him for her peace of mind and her treacherous brain drawing inappropriate pictures of them. The befuddlement she had experienced as a result had, to her utter embarrassment, showed in her actions later.

She was perplexed still. Never had anything like that happened to her, ever. It was a first and demanded deep analysis.

Starling knew she was pretty, had received more than her share of compliments and leers to last a lifetime. But she wasn't overtly sexual. Her Lutheran upbringing had a role in it, although to a much lesser extent than her nature. Starling was logical.

Her nature never permitted her to engage in mindless flirtations, deeming them as nothing more than a waste of time. Time, that was better spent on revising notes or honing gunnery skills or learning about the new tech toys her FBI ID gave her access to. Infatuation and attraction, the favorite words of every woman between sixteen and forty, had always been alien to her. Starling was logical.

Dates had been rare, more like compulsions to prevent Ardelia from going bat-shit crazy. She remembered this one time after her weekend at Pilcher's big old dump house on the Chesapeake shore, she had announced, in an expected manner, how things didn't work out between them and her best friend had flipped out, candidly proclaiming that she believed the way things were going, Starling would never find anyone. Something she had always known and never struggled with. Mapp's follow up rants about engaging in harmless sex every once in a while and its connection with health had been jokingly retorted with a one liner: _If sex was a pre-requisite for good health, every being would have been born with a pair of penis and vagina, tailor-made for each other!_ Starling was logical.

So it was no surprise to her that she didn't have anything to compare the events of the morning with. She could have referred to her crush on John Brigham as a newly recruited trainee, but she knew it didn't count. For the simple reason that it was a classic case of peer pressure chain reaction. Her classmates had been head-over-heels for the macho gunnery instructor and she had been infected. The crush had lasted for exactly two days and one night. The following night had been spent on laughing at her idiocy. Starling was logical.

To sum up, in the eyes of every person she had ever met, she was a sexually stunted, emotionally incapable woman. But she had one thing going for her. She was logical and she took pride in it, even though rationality spoiled a lot of things for her.

With quite a few things out of the way, she asked herself in a firm voice: _What exactly prompted such reaction?_

A flurry of activity. An uprising. Older inactive thoughts depleting, fueling the birth of new ones which tumbled and hurried, marching back and forth. Zigging and zagging. Jumbling and fumbling. Trying to hide something.

That something gnawing at her like a rat from someplace remote.

Starling phased the storm out and lifted the thought by its tail, her respite short-lived as she gasped.

 _Infatuation. Simple as that._

It couldn't be! She couldn't be attracted to Dr. Lecter!

 _Okay. Then offer another explanation._

She tried. Tried with all her might but couldn't come up with any.

 _I have a crush on notorious serial killer Hannibal Lecter!_

The idea was as preposterous as Churchill hugging Hitler with FDR smiling in the background, and she refused to bow down to it.

 _No._

 _Yes._

 _No._

 _Yes._

"No!" Starling didn't realize she had spoken the word aloud.

"Clarice-" A small voice tried to intervene.

"No!"

"Clarice." The voice was more powerful this time.

Maroon eyes of her alleged crush came into focus and Starling had to cover her mouth with her hand to prevent the already formed word from escaping.

"I don't believe ogling me and yelling negations would revitalize you for the strains of tomorrow. Sleeping, on the other hand, most definitely will," Dr. Lecter said.

Starling mumbled a timid, "Sorry," and lied down fully on her side, facing away from him. His advice was heeded and inner battles were given a pause for the night. A difficult day lay ahead.

* * *

Five parties of four men each gathered between two lampposts just inside the fencing gate, the members brooding and ranting about the orders issued to them but too fearful to openly disobey. At the first hint of dawn, they would fan out in five different directions in search of Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter.

The sixth party comprising Chaudhry, Mogli, Carlo and Piero stood at a significant distance near a shed, to avoid the ruckus. Light from the lamps didn't reach here.

Through the haze of smoke, Mogli saw a muscular figure approaching fast from the side. He threw the cigarette down and crushed it with his boot. His hand found the butt of the gun tucked in his waistband - a SIG Sauer P226, breaking the contact only when Margot Verger came into view.

"Madam Verger," he acknowledged, alerting others of company.

Margot nodded at the men curtly. Her muscular physique intimidated them and it reflected in their eyes. She gulped it down. It boosted her confidence.

Out of the four men in front of her, she had identified Mogli as the loose end in her plan. When all this was over, he was the only one who would come back with her to America. She couldn't allow that. Cordell presented a problem too but he could be dealt with later at any convenient time of her choosing.

First things first.

In a flash, she grabbed Mogli's gun. A swift kick to his left knee broke the joint and he crumbled. She cocked the gun and without any warning, blew his brains out.

The Sards flinched. Chaudhry didn't. He had intelligent eyes. Margot had noticed.

With all eyes on her, she pulled the decocker lever down toward the magazine. The click was sharp and enunciated in the dark, as she had hoped. She removed the magazine and offered both pieces to Chaudhry, who readily accepted.

When she spoke, her voice was unnaturally calm. "I'm going to talk now and I want each of you to listen with your ears opened wide. What happened just now is none of your business. I'm not obligated to explain anything and I'm going to use that discretion. This is the last time you'll ever see me. I will be returning to the States. _Alone._ I never came here. Mason did, to his _misfortune_."

Her words were concise, not revealing much and giving away just what was required. Her hand went into her pocket, the eyes of the goons following it closely.

The cell phone. Only one contact in the call registry, a shady banker in Sardinia. She punched on it. A man with a heavy accent picked up on the other side. She spoke briefly and then passed the phone to Carlo.

In the meantime, she addressed Chaudhry, "You are an employee. A regular of the farm. You're legit in this country and I know you don't want that jeopardized. I will find a way to give you your fair share, considerably more than what you agreed on with Mason, but you'll have to wait. Do you trust me?"

Chaudhry looked into her eyes, searching for signs of deception. He couldn't spot any. "Yes."

"Good."

Carlo finished his conversation on the phone and gave Piero a terse nod. The money was theirs.

"If you have any doubts about our arrangement, I say you clarify them now. I won't take any shit in the future," Margot said.

For the goons, only one question required an answer and Piero decided to voice it. "What about Dr. Lecter and Starling?"

Now this was a slippery slope. She needed to tread carefully, lest all her efforts until now fall flat on the face.

"They don't matter to me. And they won't figure in your compensations either. However I understand you have unfinished business with them. One thing you need to know about me, I don't like interfering in others' business as long as they keep clear of mine. The men over there are yours to command, Chaudhry. Yours alone. The helicopters arriving tomorrow along with the extra men too will be yours."

With that, she spun around, remembered something and spun back. "I almost forgot. The pistol, please?" The weapon bore her fingerprints.

Chaudhry handed over the gun and Margot walked away. Everything taken care of, Mason had just one night and one day more to intoxicate the air with his presence.

Carlo turned to Chaudhry and said in a solemn voice, "I can't rest knowing Lecter's alive. I want to pursue him. What do you want?"

If Carlo had lost Matteo and Tommaso to the monster, Chaudhry had lost his dear friend, Memon. His death hadn't been avenged yet. "I want to find Lecter and make him scream like Memon had, when the hogs ate him alive," Chaudhry replied. His answer pleased Carlo immensely.

Piero watched the exchange from the side, very much doubting there was anything in the whole wide world that could make Dr. Lecter scream. He was wrong.

Mogli's bloody corpse remained neglected.


	10. Chapter 10

On and on they trudged, Dr. Lecter and Starling, through the wilderness, defined by overwhelming green and patches of brown. Their path wasn't straight but arced and convoluted to accommodate the obstructions - thorny bushes, humongous trees and harrowing spreads of weeds - periodically encountered.

The forest seemed thicker than yesterday and Starling had an inkling that it would get even more thick in the days to come. One more thing to worry about, in the future.

At present, she was thankful for the plain, even terrain of the jungle which offered no resistance to her lean steps. Even if it did, she didn't notice, a repeat of the previous night.

It was mid-afternoon and Starling's cotton shirt clung to her sweat-drenched skin as if glued. The temperature had soared drastically since the sun came overhead and the cool morning seemed like a distant sweet dream. In reality, heat wasn't a problem in itself. The humidity thus generated and trapped in this mini-ecosystem was.

Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead and into her eyes, making them sting. She glanced at Dr. Lecter, who was walking beside her, and pursed her lips in annoyance. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and the only sign of perspiration visible to her was the sheen on his forearms. His face and neck were completely devoid of sweat and his white shirt was inexplicably dry. There wasn't any sign of exhaustion on his face either. He looked just as fresh as he'd looked in the morning.

 _How does he have so much control on his body? Is anyone other than him capable of doing that?_

Dr. Lecter felt eyes on him. Not wanting to contribute to her suffering, he turned his head slowly, giving her sufficient time to act obtuse.

Hunched a little in her posture, Starling was utterly tired, he could tell. Parched too, going by the mild cracks in her lips. He'd take care of it. But before that…

"If you'd spent the night sleeping and not shouting manically, you'd be in a much better position, Clarice," Dr. Lecter said.

 _Yeah, Dr. Obvious, you think?_ She had half a mind to say that aloud but thought better. Confrontation wouldn't do her good in her condition. Plus she didn't want to draw his attention to that particular incident from last night, fearing that it might open a can of worms.

"It's really interesting, Doctor, how you seem to recall only certain things from yesterday, completely forgetting others – of much greater value, in my view," Starling said, making a veiled reference to his promise about taking care of their water needs.

Dr. Lecter stopped. "Tut-tut-tut. I see your ham-handed attempts at segues haven't improved much, Clarice. A pity, really."

Oh, that was it! If he wanted to play it that way, she wasn't going to back down. "Yeah? Well, I see your habit of passing judgments hasn't waned either, Dr. Lecter. Pity, doubly so," she retorted with child-like adamancy. Ardelia's voice in her head sounded giddy: _Whoohoo! Bitch-slap! You tell him, girl!_

"I see you haven't learnt to channel your rage into more productive means, Clarice. Pity."

Starling's hands balled into fists and she stood on her tiptoes to match his height. "I see you're just as arrogant as the first time we met, Dr. Lecter. Pity!" she yelled into his face. In her mind, Ardelia performed a somersault and jumped through a glittering hoopla ring of cold fire. _I might be the one doing circus tricks but man, watch you go!_

"I see your flare is intact despite spending years in a stale bureaucracy, Clarice. Impressive."

"I see you're- wait...what? My flare? ... What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice was still a few decibels too high.

Dr. Lecter crossed his arms. "What do you think?"

Starling pondered for half a minute, not his question but the weight of her suspicions. "Oh no, Dr. Lecter. No-no-nooo. I'm not going to take that bait. You were clearly losing. I believe it was my turn." She took a breath and with renewed vigor began, "I see you're-"

"Allow me to elaborate my earlier statement," he interjected, raising his palm in appeal. "I see no difference in your character since Memphis. The bureau might have shaped you somewhat on an aesthetic level, but your elementary traits are the same, courage being the most prominent one."

Starling's eyes bulged. _Did he just compliment me? No, it couldn't be. He was just deriding the FBI._

Dr. Lecter read her confusion. "Pity you can't identify a compliment when you get one, Clarice."

Receiving a compliment from the mouth that had ridiculed her every so often merited a gasp and she gasped, inwardly. From her conversation with Barney she had come to know that his ridicule was a compliment in itself, atleast in her case it was. Receiving one overtly only made it all the more...surreal.

The shades of pink in her cheeks would have been more pronounced had she been hydrated. Witnessing the sunlight play with his mystical irises hypnotized her and in her incoherency she drawled her surprise, "What. The. Fuck."

At that, the Doctor cringed and the spell broke.

"I meant thank you. Umm...sorry for that. For the last thing. Thank you...for the other. The first thing...for the compliment, I mean. Thank you," she fumbled to cover.

"You're welcome, Clarice." Dr. Lecter began to walk, Starling following him.

Another one of Starling's characteristic traits was competitiveness. From debate competitions in high school to her struggle to survive in the bureau, she had always competed till her last breath. Three paces behind Dr. Lecter now, she had both time and space to reflect. _So who won the last round? Of course, I did. My 'pity taunts' were way better than his._ A moment later: _Although he was the one who had the last word._ Another moment later: _So what? Look at the bigger picture. Overall, I was the clear winner._ A smile. _I might not have succeeded in my attempt at segue but I damn well managed to-_

Something occurred to her and the smile disappeared from her face. Striding forward, she reached Dr. Lecter and grabbing his shoulder, turned him around forcefully.

"That was a segue, wasn't it?" she accused.

One corner of Dr. Lecter's mouth moved up and she hated it. When he spoke, his tone was as patronizing as the words to follow. "For your benefit, Clarice. Transitions in a conversation need to be smooth. I think I already advised you down in the dungeons not to use wit in a segue. Clearly, you didn't follow and I felt obligated to show you how to do it correctly."

Starling saw red. "You arrogant piece of shit!" she groused through clenched teeth and flung her fist at his face.

In an extraordinary display of agility, Dr. Lecter ducked and deflected the attack. In retaliation, he spun her around and coiled his arms around her lithe body, rendering her arms motionless. He pulled her toward him, pressing his frontside to her back tightly.

Starling writhed violently like a fly caught in a spider's web, jumping up and down to get herself free but failing miserably. "Let me go!"

Dr. Lecter brought his mouth to her right ear and whispered, "Your flare, Clarrriiiice…(pauses to inhale audibly)…is intact. Despite the apparent drama of the situation, believe me when I say the compliment is genuine." His hot breath caressed her ear and her knees went weak. Traitors!

"Let me go," she whimpered, eyelids drooping inadvertently. She would later attribute it to sweat.

Dr. Lecter unwound his grip at once and retracted his hands to her elbows. Starling had ample opportunity to break free, but she didn't.

His hands slithered to her waist. She felt the burn of his touch through her shirt, felt it on her hipbones and down on her quadriceps, a hint of sweet pressure.

Dr. Lecter was careful not to take too much liberty as he retrieved the water bottle and the knife from her pants' pockets.

And then his touch was gone. Starling felt the vacuum at her back ten seconds before her eyes fluttered open.

Realizing what had happened, she turned around and saw the Doctor near a tree several feet away.

She walked up to him and demanded, "What was that?"

Dr. Lecter was busy slicing through one of the many woody vines circling the tree, protruding from the soil and extending as far up as the eyes went, perhaps, to the canopy, and didn't reply.

Starling pointed to the knife in his hand and the bottle on the ground, and said, "You know you could have asked for those things."

He stopped working and turned his head to her. "I know."

"Then why didn't you?!"

The reactive smile beaming on his lips and the glint in his eyes made her shudder and she hastily spoke up, "You know what? Don't answer that." His smile lingered and she hated it still, although for a very different reason.

Dr. Lecter selected another vine, tapped on it with his index finger and began slicing it with the knife, to and fro, to and fro. "I believe it is time for me to come through on my promise regarding water, Clarice." To and fro, to and fro. "And there's an added incentive for me as well." He waited for her to inquire and when she did, said, "Your irritation seems to stem from the lack of water in your body." To and fro. "By satisfying your thirst, I wish to save myself from any future attack."

Starling wasn't amused and she made sure her face conveyed her dullness for his benefit, but he didn't look. He was focused on the task at hand. His determined actions pierced the vine and white sap came out. He sliced a few more vines but the result was the same.

Hidden behind the foliage, near the inner girth, was a thick vine, so thick that Starling thought it was a broken branch when Dr. Lecter pulled it out.

Whack! One quick, fluid blow pierced a small hole into it and moisture oozed out. It was a liana. Two more strikes exposed half of its cross-section and water flowed out unhindered.

Bringing it to his mouth, Dr. Lecter first quenched his thirst and then filled the water bottle to the brim.

The dullness on Starling's face gave way to fervent surprise at the happenings.

Handing over the bottle, the Doctor explained, "Some of the vines surrounding the trees are parasitic. They are called lianas and they steal water from the roots of the trees on which they prey. Jungles like these are full of them."

Only half listening, Starling drank the water in quick, big gulps and emptied half the bottle in no time. She had never drank water or for that matter anything, as delicious as this. It smelled like wood and tasted like earth, and she felt refreshed. Next, she washed the stickiness off her face. He'd just told her these jungles were full of lianas, so she was quite generous in her use of the liquid

They rested for about an hour and then moved on.

* * *

 **A/N: Hey guys! Want to read a good Lecterfic? I suggest you read EGL's Coda if you haven't already. It's a masterpiece, I'm telling you. Just remember that the last chapter is an alternate ending. Ta-ta.**


	11. Chapter 11

Starling, relieved of thirst and reasonably rested, was brimming with newfound energy, her blood pumping potently through her veins. The only drawback was that her irritation with the situation was back with a vengeance. She stomped along with Dr. Lecter like a child forced to do something it didn't want to. Brain fogged, to her every branch appeared as a snake and every protrusion the tail of an iguana. She constantly ran into the webs of spiders; slaps bestowed by stubborn bushes and fern leaves were a new normal. Not a minute passed when her shrieks didn't fill the air.

Dr. Lecter, who had initially been amused by this side of Starling, was on the verge of losing his cool.

Another shriek and he snapped.

"Clarice!" he hissed, turning and taking ahold of her shoulders.

His sudden and unexpected action frightened her. Eyes closed, she screamed in fear, only to be silenced by his hand on her mouth.

"Clarice, open your eyes and look at me," he said in a no-nonsense voice. She did.

Despite his inner annoyance, he continued in a soft voice, "Good. Now listen. I know this is tough for you. You're way out of your comfort zone, I realize that. But losing calm at every small thing won't solve the problem, will it?"

The skin of her cheeks and jaw where his hand touched her face was tingling and her lips were numb. For the second time in less than three hours, Starling was thrown off her game. It took five seconds for her to process what he had said and in reply, she could only manage a muffled, "No."

"I beg your pardon?"

She removed his hand from her mouth and said, "No, Dr. Lecter. I understand it won't solve the problem."

He nodded in approval, turned and began to walk, Starling following close behind.

"Striding through the wild is an art. Be sensitive but not overly. Become one with your surroundings, make the vegetation your friend. Listen to the trees and they'll tell you what lies ahead. Follow my leeeeaaaa..."

Dr. Lecter parted the bushes with his hands, took a step forward and distracted that he was lecturing the person behind him, tripped over a burrow freshly dug by a rabbit or a mole and fell on the ground.

Starling couldn't control herself and broke into hysterical laughter. "Become one with your surroundings, make friends with the trees. They'll tell you what lies ahead. Well, Doctor, didn't your friends tell you about the burrow?" she mocked in between her laughs.

Dr. Lecter had never seen her laugh before and as he did now, he realized he was drawn to the laughing creases around her mouth.

"Do you find the situation amusing, Clarice?"

"Very." Another round of laughter.

A minute or so later, Starling gained enough control to notice the trail of blood from his temple down to his cheek. "Dr. Lecter, you're bleeding!"

The gash he'd received from the buckle of Carlo's belt had reopened due to the fall. He touched it with two fingers and their tips turned out bloody.

Before he could do anything about it, Starling used the pocket knife to carve out two strips, one long, another short from her shirtsleeve and knelt down in front of him. She folded the shorter piece and dabbed his wound, pecking it dry. Next, she took the longer strip, wound it around his head twice and tied the ends into a knot on the side above his ear.

High, high above them, a draft tickled the trees and Dr. Lecter, lost in the dreaminess of the moment, listened. Listened to the rustle of leaves. Listened to the creaking of a colossal door in his mind as it opened and, the rattle of a memory forged so long ago that it seemed to represent another time, a different era. Listened to the rustle of the white silk of her kimono while she sewed up his finger. Eyes fixated on Starling's face, he saw through her. Beyond, the face of Lady Murasaki, like the pad of a water lily on the ripple of time, lovely and elegant as always, undistorted.

"The cut runs deep, Dr. Lecter. Bandage is a temporary remedy. It will serve for now but you need to be careful," Starling said, retracting her hands from his head.

"Thank you, Clarice."

Starling replied with a faint smile, a tacit aftereffect of her previous laughing fit and Dr. Lecter's curiosity was piqued. "May I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"When was the last time you laughed so hard?"

Starling stared at him for a long moment as her smile narrowed and finally vanished.

Words were in her head: _I don't remember, Dr. Lecter. I don't remember._ She didn't say them aloud. She didn't need to.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dr. Lecter had wandered too far away and night had fallen, making the process of identifying the milestones he'd marked – grooves skewed into the tree trunks – a little too cumbersome than he would have preferred.

Never mind.

He decided to take assistance of his nose. Resolving and associating an odor is more exerting than only smelling which he'd been doing on his way here, even though it was more of a playful art for him. He exhaled sharply to clear his sinuses and sniffed the air, detecting a variety.

 _Mmm, Magnolia ..._ He knew that aroma and followed for forty steps, front shirttail bunched up into a compact bundle, turning at the spicy scent of ... _Sweet Williams, beautiful._ There was the pungency of half a dozen dianthus-es guiding him and the sweetness of both confederate as well as star jasmines – true jasmines, wild ones, not the garden variety types. And, of course, the kadams, indigenous to the Ghats – another couple of steps for that, which he took out of context in order to avoid the stench of squirrel droppings.

All this made him arrive at the fourth makeshift milestone and he caught a whiff of Starling's natural scent.

While walking further, his mind wandered at the influence of her scent. Two days into their journey, it was too early. Too early to begin a different journey, to begin her transformation, take the first step to bring Mischa back from abyss. Too early, he told himself, again and again, with each step he took.

In the swarming dark, Starling saw a floating pair of red eyes and felt her pocket for the knife. She hoped it wasn't an animal, hoped it was Dr. Lecter and it was. Pulled like a bow string, she relaxed when he came near and her hand fell away from the safety of the knife. It felt strange. Settling at the same time. Strangely settling.

"Did you find anything, get anything?" Starling asked, eyes flying to the bandage.

"Kumquats. I tasted one. They are fresh and ripe," Dr. Lecter said, bouncing the bundle a little with his free hand. His lower abdomen was exposed upto his navel, pale skin glistening in the scarce moonlight. Starling's eyes moved from inspecting the bandage on his head to appreciating his toned stomach.

When he handed her her share – fifteen or so kumquats, she diverted her eyes elsewhere and hoped he couldn't detect the heat radiating from her cheeks.

As the Doctor settled across from her, Starling studied the small, oblong and flawlessly orange-skinned fruit in her hand, rotating it clockwise and turning it top down. Wary but hungry, she dug her teeth into its skin superficially and found it hard and sweet on her tongue. When she took a generous bite, juices flowed and its tang made her teeth turn sour. Her head jerked back in reflex and she spat the fruit out, repulsed

"I see you've never had a kumquat before," Dr. Lecter said, observing her every move. "With juice it isn't edible. Nibble off the skin at the top and squeeze the juice and seeds out. You can eat the rest." He showed her how. Starling repeated and popped the remains into her mouth. Just a little bit tangy and a lot sweeter, she found it delicious.

Dr. Lecter watched as a droplet sneaked out of her lips and gliding down, suspended from her chin. Starling's face was bright against the darkness surrounding her, behind her. The image moved him just as much as the shadow play in The Madonna of the Rocks that he had enjoyed a couple of years ago in The Louvre while en route to Glasgow.

Even in the deficient light, his eyes could detect color, saffron of the droplet and copper green of her eyes. He willed for the saffron to shrink, slowly wane into aubergine and it did. Copper green should remain, he decided. A memory came to him on its own. Mischa's blue eyes twinkling as she held the dark grape in her hand whole, her pink lips turning purple as she squeezed it dry with her baby teeth, gums mostly, juices running wild.

Starling wiped the droplet off and Dr. Lecter reminded himself once again: _Too early._ Only this time he refused to follow.

"What is your favorite fruit?" he asked.

"Orange," Starling replied absently, nibbling and squeezing.

"Ah. Oranges might be difficult to find in these jungles though kinnows should be readily available. We are already into the season. Why is orange your favorite?"

"I don't know. Why is anything anybody's favorite?"

"Well, for one, you can say taste. But I don't believe that is the reason in your case. If I were to guess-"

"Taste," she said quickly. "That is it." Her face was willfully expressionless as she put the kumquat in her mouth.

Dr. Lecter watched her chewing the fruit and took in the vacancy on her face. He knew too well that this time he didn't have the convenience of the leverage he had in Baltimore and Memphis. Nevertheless, encouraged by the possibilities and at the same time, cautious of the obstructions, he decided to proceed. "Oranges of this part of the world are quite famous the world over. In the Lecter Castle where I grew up, everything was grown in the kitchen garden – vegetables, fruits and herbs – it was huge and diverse – but oranges were ordered from a British trader who would buy them from the orchards in Nagpur and ship them to Manchester and later to our house in Lithuania. Every season, my mother insisted on it. She liked oranges too much."

Starling's face did not change but her chewing mellowed. She had never in her wildest dreams thought that Dr. Lecter would intentionally or even accidentally depart with any information about himself. She hoped it wasn't a quid pro quo. She was too tired for it.

"Tell me about your mother," she said.

"She was of the Sforza on one side and a Visconti on the other. Very beautiful, I tell you. I have the color of her eyes but not the shape. Hers were deeply creased with defined brow bones. They enhanced the nuances of her aristocracy. You would look at her and know she was a noble, that kind of woman. When I was young, I used to observe the grace of her walk and try to imitate it. Never succeeded really but it was heady and made a good game."

Starling smiled at the picture of a young Hannibal Lecter walking behind his mother, trying to copy the groove of her walk, both mother and son maroon-eyed.

"So, you're an aristocrat?" she asked. It was more of a confirmation than a question. The FBI, herself included, should have picked up on it, she thought, given his obvious attributes. Impeccable mannerism, refined tastes, even comportment, everything about him screamed he was highborn.

"Yes. I'm the descendant of Hannibal the Grim. I lived the first eight years of my life in the Lecter Castle built by him more than five hundred years ago. It was an opulent structure with spacious corridors, plenty of rooms with high ceilings and many, many decorations. Grandiose, with every modern amenity, yet conventional with its fortification and moat. I remember distinctly I used to throw bread to the black swans on the water of the moat." Behind his eyelids: _Mischa holding on to Hannibal's hand for balance while she threw bread to the swans and hiding behind his leg when the alpha swan spread his wings, hissing in challenge._

He didn't mention Mischa to Starling.

"Eight years, you say. What happened after?" Starling asked, completely immersed in their talk.

The hologram of memory disappeared as the Doctor blinked. "War," he answered, evenly without any buildup. "The Nazis plundered and destroyed the castle. I was orphaned. Later, my uncle took me under his tutelage. He was a respected artist in France, drew the most detailed sketches I can remember, beautiful paintings. A decent man."

He would have told her more had she inquired. She didn't.

Starling felt honored with what he had given her. And indebted. It wasn't a quid pro quo. That much was clear and it made all the difference in the world. She had to repay him with something significant, return the honor.

Dr. Lecter read the thoughts behind her eyes and reclined against a tree, observing her with concealed glee like a child waiting for its wind-up doll to sing and dance.

Starling chortled as she began, "As a child, I was a tomboy. Didn't let my hair grow long until I was ten. My mother complained about it but I never cared. Climbing trees, thrashing in ditches, riding big goats on a dare, you name it. I did everything a boy does.

"You asked me in your letter about my happiest memory in the kitchen. Whenever I used to fall down from a goat or hurt myself, my father would gather me up against his chest and bring me to the spare kitchen. He would place me on a ladder-back kitchen chair, kiss the top of my head and sit opposite me. Oranges were always there on the table, big and round, from our neighbor's orchards. Sno balls too if it was the first or second of the month – that's when he was paid. He would peel an orange with his Barlow knife with its tip broken off and alternately pass me one section and eat the other."

Starling's reflection shivered in Dr. Lecter's pupils and words read or heard someplace sometime wafted through his head, in his head: _…bloom, Rose in the gloom._

A small smile covered her lips but its tone was somber. "That's why orange is my favorite fruit," she completed and lay down on her back with her hands behind her head, looking up at the crescent moon, pale and stained, through the dark leaves.

Away from the humdrum and obligations of her city life, Starling, for the first time in so many years, desired on her tongue the coconut-ty taste of the springy icing on the sno ball, the taste of her childhood, a happy cord.

The babbling and chirping sounds outside had no effect on the music in the sprawling corridors of the Doctor's memory palace, which originated from a koto in a specific room. He rotated his head and saw the smile on Starling's face broaden, its tone changing finally. In the dark beyond, a glimpse of he and Lady Murasaki on her terrace, his cheek against a weeping cherry, watching the harvest moon rise with her song and the terrace rise with the moon.

He hadn't called for the memory. He never did. He cruelly pushed it away and while watching Starling lick her lips, called for the memories of Mischa to envelop him. But the music did not fade.


	12. Chapter 12

Margot stood still in her own billowing dark in front of Mason's temporary abode, checking and double-checking her motives. She felt in the waistband of her denim jeans the pistol with which she had shot Johnny Mogli, and in the sleeve of her blouse, a long and slender cattle prod, with a black tag on its handle highlighting its working credentials: _High Voltage and Low Current._ To minimize tissue-damage, it reasoned. Not that it mattered.

She pinched the skin on her neck, pinched the taut muscle of her bicep and didn't feel anything.

Up the concrete steps and outside the door, she took a moment's break before going inside Mason's chamber. The creaking of the wooden door woke him up from his troubled slumber.

"Hello, Mason."

The room was washed in soft light outpouring from the lamps on Mason's bedsides, giving it a melancholy feel. Cleanliness wherever he stayed was a foregone conclusion owing to his medical condition, still, a nasty, musky smell seemed to be riding the air. Perhaps, it was in Margot's head.

"Margot. Where were you the whole day?" Mason yawned. "Never mind. How are the operations going? Has anybody returned? Any news from the helicopters' crew? Tell me there aren't any glitches."

Margot's torso was broad in the doorframe. She took a step forward on the marble-tiled floor and the door closed behind her.

"No news from Chaudhry's men or the helicopters' crew yet. And there's a minor problem, or a slight glitch if you want to call it that."

"Tell me."

"Mogli's dead," Margot announced in her raspy voice.

"What? How?"

"Doesn't matter. What matters is what you _owe_ me."

Mason looked hard at her, eyed her from head to toe, the puffs from the respirator beeping and booping incrementally with each inch.

"One of my men is dead and you want to talk about this bullshit now!" he gritted out, froth appearing between his teeth.

"Actually no. I don't want to talk. Time for talk is over." She slid the cattle prod out of her sleeve. "It is time for measures."

She pressed the button on its rubber handle, inducing corona discharge between the electrodes. With his one good goggled eye, Mason watched with horror the clean spark on the tip of the cattle prod, accompanied by an incessant crackling sound.

From the feverish luminosity in her hand, his eye wandered to the still blackness on her face.

To some, Mason was a heartless creature, to some a despicable sadist and to many others, just another harmless rich son of a whore, but when it came to resourceful shrewdness, everybody was on the same page – he had been gifted with plenty.

Looking into Margot's face he knew. No words were needed for confirmation of what his senses were dreading to utter. Her volatile eyes barked her intentions loud enough and Mason barked out even louder, "Cordell! Get in here! Cordell!"

Sloppy, excited thuds behind the door to his right, in the adjacent room.

Margot was ready with her pistol.

Five seconds. The door flung open and ... Bang! Bang! The first bullet went through Cordell's shoulder. Non-lethal. The second one slammed through his throat. Lethal. Due to the impact of the bullets, he fell over backwards and was gone in seconds. Thick blood continued to leak out from his ruptured jugulum, spreading all around his head and torso, giving him from above an illusion of nomadic aura.

Margot de-cocked the gun and threw it on the sofa cushion and walked up to Mason's bed.

In a damp and shaky voice, Mason pleaded, "Margot, listen. Listen, Margot. What if I adopt Judy, huh? She could be my heir. Weee … we-we-we can work the kinks out with our lawyers, smooth things-"

"Ssshhhh… I told you time for talk is over, big brother."

With the cattle prod, she lifted the coil of his plaited hair – she didn't want to touch it – and set it aside on his pillow. She noticed the ripples undulating in the middle of the sanitized, white sheet covering him. She stripped the cover off his body, and saw it was due to his trembling hand.

"See? You're excited about this too, aren't you, Mason? Jerking off was always your favorite pastime." From her pocket, she took out a non-spermicidal condom. "It's going to be a little different this time around, okay? But don't worry, it will be even more thrilling, more…um…electrifying. Literally. Ha-ha."

She put on rubber gloves before proceeding to put her hands on him. "Ever heard of electroejaculation, Mason? No? I have. Well, to be honest, I'm only familiar with the theory. You know, stimulate the rectal lining adjacent to the prostate gland … use low current electrodes … one, two, three trials with appreciable gaps … anesthesia is a must … blah, blah, blah. So you see, theoretically, I'm as knowledgeable as any of your hotshot surgeons. There's one problem though. I know zilch about the practical procedure. But I promise you one thing. You won't die because of it. I won't let you! That will come later. Yeah, fun time later," she said, clapping her hands together. "And one more thing. There's no anesthesia. I couldn't risk you nodding off to death, you sneaky bastard."

"Margot, please. Please … "

No further words escaped his mouth, only high-pitched screams equivalent in intensity to the pain he had to go through in the next minute. The procedure was successful, going by the quantity of semen collected. Recuperating, he saw her remove the gloves and tuck the warm container between her breasts through the neckline of her blouse.

One hazy look at the blood-coated cattle prod and he lost whatever sliver of control he had cleverly accumulated. "You bitch! Idiotic cunt! I'm going to skin your ass and nail you to a stake, then set you on fire."

The air conditioners had been turned off earlier in the evening and the draft from the fan above the bed was proving insufficient. Margot dabbed her face with a handkerchief to clear off the sweat and walked towards the mini-medical refrigerator in the corner. Inside were four bottles of sodium and potassium electrolytes, limited doses of which were provided to Mason through drip every week, in order to prevent stagnation of whatever remained of his spinal and other neural responses. The label on top of one announced its effective molality to be five hundred per cent of your regular sport electrolytes.

She collected the bottles and came to Mason's side. "It's time for your dose, Mason. Only this time, it will be oral and in excess. Open your mouth. Take the chocolate. You know you want it. It'll help with the heat, I promise. Open your mouth, now!"

Despite repetitive orders and warnings, Mason's mouth remained stubbornly shut.

"So, you're good with others taking the chocolate but you won't take it yourself? How unfair is that?! But then again you've never been one for fairness, have you?"

Margot put the heel of her hand on his chin and forced it down. His mouth popped open and she didn't even break a sweat. She pressed on, increasing the pressure until his lower jaw broke loose with a _crack._

Mason's tongue wiggled vigorously in the newly-created spacious cavity as though dancing to the onslaught of gut-wrenching cries emanating from his throat.

Painful screams subsided, turning into recurring gurgles, bubbling and bubbling as bottle after bottle of cool electrolyte was poured down his hot throat, mostly into the esophagus, some of it escaping into his trachea. The quantity poured was so much that his mouth filled up to the brim sometime into the fourth bottle. He was drowning but Margot didn't stop. She kept the bottle inverted until the liquid leaked out of his nostrils, flowing down his cheeks and his broken jaw, down the sides of his face and wetting the indentation on the pillow where his head lay shivering with torture.

When the bottle emptied, she threw it away, collected the cattle prod from the floor and looking into Mason's eye, shoved it down his throat, shoved it with animal force, three quarter length disappearing into his esophagus.

"Remember, Mason ... I want to see that image in your eyes when you put your filthy hands on me for the first time. Yesss, there it is. Very good." A deep breath. "I know it will hurt more than when you tore me but more than anything in this whole goddamned world, I'm convinced that _you deserve it._ "

She pressed the button on the rubber handle of the cattle prod, connecting the electrodes and Mason's head began to thrash violently with shock, electricity permeating through every pore of his head, his lungs and stomach, wherever the ions of the electrolytes permitted.

Margot watched with unmoved expression the life go out behind his eye but she didn't remit her hold on the button until the transparent glass of his goggle was stained red with the goop of his exploded eyeball.

* * *

The Stuka, pride of the Nazis, lay inverted amid the trees and flames, firing round after round at the yard. The bodies of Count Lecter and Mr. Jakov lay sprouting blood at the farther end, near the tank, the words: _Avenge our Soviet girls and wipe out the fascist vermin_ on its turret decorated with bullet holes. Dr. Lecter read the words with ease and with the same flair that he had the first time reading them, hidden behind the door facing.

Inside the lodge, Hannibal, the boy on the floor, Mischa under him, looked out at his mother lying in the snow, motionless. And breathless, he noted even from this distance, her dress on fire.

"Stay here!" he said to Mischa and went out to his mother, heaping snow onto her clothes to douse the fire, the shots of the cannon from the plane raging all around him. He touched his face with hers, pressed his ear to her bosom to listen to her heart – to know if she was alive or to escape this hell, he didn't know.

Hannibal saw Mischa come out from the safety of the lodge, running eagerly in want of her mother and brother, running wildly toward them in the snow, about to pass Lothar on her way when a cannon round hit the servant, splattering thick blood all over her. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she raised her arms to the sky and screamed, "Anniba!"

"Mischa!" came the sharp, piercing cry of an eight year old boy from the mouth of Dr. Lecter, the agony in his voice shrouding the doldrum mutterings of the jungle completely. Silence for three seconds and then the scream again.

Starling was up and by the Doctor's side quickly, shaking his shoulders, cajoling him to reality, murmuring again and again in his ear, "It's a dream, Doctor. Wake up. It's just a dream."

Starling's hand on his face wiping the sweat off and Dr. Lecter captured it, gripping it like a rubber ball and increasing pressure to puncture. In pain, Starling cried out loud, "Hannibal, please!"

Dr. Lecter released her wrist and was up at once, panting, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Two seconds atmost and a familiar calm rolled over his face, hairline to chin, ear to ear and he looked at her and took a gentle hold of her hand as though it was a dove and whispered, "Forgive me, Clarice. I wasn't in control."

* * *

 **A/N: Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all of you. Have a BLAST!**


	13. Chapter 13

'I wasn't in control', Dr. Lecter had said. The words reverberated in Starling's head, clanking against the walls of her mind, poetically imitating the steps of her stride in repetition ... thock, thock ... clank, clank ... thock, thock, thock ... clank, clank, clank. The man she had patented the epitome of control had ironically confessed his loss of the same.

And the reason for this uncharacteristic lapse was a nightmare. How very ... human. Oh, how she wished for the intelligentsia of psychology, the so-called cream and the likes of _guru_ Jack Crawford of the elite Behavioral Science and his followers to be here, at this moment of her vindication. She was right, they were wrong: Dr. Lecter was not a monster. Not if her mind hadn't deceived her and the vulnerability she had seen in his bloodshot eyes wasn't imaginary. She knew it had been there, present and real, even if for a measly two seconds.

All that time spent at Hannibal's House and before that in her bed, from midnight till dawn, on the couch in her duplex, trapped inside her contemptible cubicle amid the never-ending streak of paperwork, in a dozen other places, with either a mug of strong coffee or a tumbler of Jack Daniel's dutifully by her side, reliving her conversations with him, on repeat, trying to convince herself to go with the flow and dump her own intuitions and failing every single time. Those long hours of reasoning hadn't been in vain! Finally. Dr. Lecter, for all his superhuman capabilities and seemingly immortal persona, was just another mortal, with regular human vulnerabilities.

Actually, it shouldn't have come as a revelation to her. She had known it all along, ever since their parting in Memphis. Moreover, the incidents of the last few days should have been proof enough. Not only had she, predictably, encountered a well-known arrogant and preachy side of him but also a not-so-well-known playfulness, something she never would have guessed, not in ten lifetimes. She highly doubted any other person had been a witness to it. He had intentionally shared his past with her and demanded nothing in return. How very unlike the blood-sucking, flesh-eating madman of the books penned by the most revered academicians of her times. The theories of these self-acknowledged _experts_ were based on hurried attempts at quantifying him for fame and false respect. No surprise their half-knowledge never really came close to the truth.

The truth was he was just as prone to the upheaval of memories as anybody else. And she could relate to him. Several incidents of waking up suddenly with a heavy, constricting heart from the dreams of her daddy being carried away in a coffin and her momma in the kitchen washing blood off his hat came to her mind. Yes, she could relate to him.

Which meant she was closer to him now than she or any other person – a highly probable assumption in her view – had ever been. They had taken a leap of faith in the last couple of days. She did not for a second credit these happenings to her wit or actions; she was cleverer than that. Dr. Lecter had done it, of his own will. Circumstances too may have played their part, but to a lesser degree; he was cleverer than that.

A storm of thoughts and reflections and in the storm's eye a question: _Who is Mischa?_

Like Starling, Dr. Lecter, walking alongside her, was occupied with his own spiraling thoughts.

It wasn't like he hadn't dreamt of Mischa before. Ever since his partial recollection of that tragedy with the aid of thiopental sodium in his hostel room more than thirty years ago, dreams of her had been periodic, but limited to instances when he had been in danger, acting as his sixth sense at times like the morning of his impending lecture to the Studiolo where the assassins waited underneath, in the tense, noisome streets of Florence to abduct him or the night before Will Graham had called upon him at his Baltimore mansion, ultimately leading to his arrest.

But here and now, what should he make of the warning? Or was it really a warning? Hadn't he enforced this calamity on himself by forcefully calling upon the memories of Mischa, knowing fully well that the corridors leading to them were marred with darkness more cursed than moonless nights? On closer introspection, he reflected he had. And that was neither healthy for him nor particularly helpful for his purpose, and he was clear in his mind about his purpose. Resurrection of Mischa. He was.

It wouldn't do. Urgency. Desperation. Words associated with weaker beings. They left an ammonia-like taste in his mouth.

Last night had been fruitful but there were bits and pieces he would rather prefer to forget. The inference drawn, as he looked back, was not to give in to haste and be realistic about the power he held over the numbing earnestness of Clarice Starling. He had to be patient with her. She was strong enough in character to resist his influence. Deliberate thrusts would be repelled not only by her but by his own subconscious as well. He realized that now. A nudge or two was all he could afford and that should suffice, considering his sole clout over her in the coming days. Or would it?

So woven in their respective thoughts were they both that neither noticed the whirring of the chopper's blades until it was almost upon them. Fortunately, Dr. Lecter's concentration broke and his mind instantly began to process a range of requisite responses he could resort to. The foliage above wasn't dense enough to shield them from detection. But the expanse of the humongous tree to his left should provide the needed cover. And Starling was in between. Excellent. No wasting time in dragging her towards the target, as she seemed lost, still.

By the time Starling became aware of the chopper, the Doctor had leapt on to her and they both were rolling toward the tree, torsos leveled and limbs entangled. Dr. Lecter made sure her head was pillowed by his hands to prevent any untoward injury, even as his own head remained relatively prone.

Searching eyes hovered above while they remained safely hidden under the tree in each other's embrace, Dr. Lecter spread over Starling's entire length protectively, her face tucked in the crook of his neck, eyes closed.

The whirring above was powerful and invariable. Perhaps the goons had detected some activity, or so gathered the predator in Dr. Lecter. His hold on Starling's body tightened, blood freezing and stilling in veins, eyes resembling explosive twin ingots. Primal instincts awakened, the beast waited prepared as ever for any eventuality.

Contrary to dread or apprehension or any other normal response appropriate for such situations, Starling felt safe, safer with him covering her body than the kevlar shielding her torso from the bullets of the hardcore criminals she had engaged in gunfights while working the streets. Dr. Lecter's weight, just like the grip of his limbs bounding her, was surprisingly welcomed. Her eyes were shut. She couldn't see. No need. Her arms looped around the underside of his biceps, and palms, slithering lightly over his shoulder blades, sensed the life raging beneath and that was all the sensation she needed for now.

The noise of the chopper steadily decreased in intensity as it receded upwards and flew away.

Their hearts, Dr. Lecter and Starling's, thudded in harmony, hers twice for his every beat. Maybe hers should stop, she mused. His would nourish them both just fine. Thump, thump ... ten, twenty times perhaps and then it moved away. _No. Don't go. Stop, please._

Looking down from Dr. Lecter's eyes, dejection showed on her face but it dissipated soon as something wet dripped onto her cheek. Her eyes snapped open and she took in the blood-soaked cloth covering his forehead.

"You're bleeding again!" exclaimed Starling.

Dr. Lecter pulled back and sat against the tree and removed the bandage. The recent bout of physical activity had reopened his wound, which was now bleeding profusely.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Starling inspected the wound. "Very bad. I don't think another bandage can fix it."

"Then we need to seal it."

"Seal it? How? We don't have stitches or any-"

"With fire. We need to seal the wound with fire," he replied with absolute certitude.

Starling was not so certain. "Cauterization may help with blood-loss but what about the infection later? It's not like we have antibiotics or anything to deal with it."

"Infection won't be a problem, I assure you. My immune system is superior than most. My body will be able to fight it."

Just a few words from him were sufficient to chase away her trepidations. Another one of his much vaunted superhuman capabilities she was thinking about earlier. "Fine. But how will we build a fire? We don't have any matches or lighter or even a magnesium stick."

"Leave that to me. And I'll prefer a live demonstration instead of a long lecture if you permit." He pointed to his wound with his thumb. "As you can see, time is of the essence. Do you mind?"

Starling nodded. She took out the water bottle and knife from her pants' pockets and cut out two strips from the sleeve of her shirt. She thoroughly wetted one strip with water and cleansed the blood and dirt off his forehead, lingering on his wound significantly longer. Coiling the second strip tightly around his head, she stopped the bleeding temporarily. It wouldn't hold for long, though.

"Done. Tell me what I need to do." Her back straightened and eyes opened a fraction more. Dr. Lecter recognized these subliminal changes in her body and smiled inwardly. Starling, the soldier, was on duty. How very droll.

He pointed to a spot to his right, approximately one foot in front of the tree he was resting against and began, "I need you to dig a pit there. Not too deep or wide. Enough to house a small fire. But before that collect some tinder – fallen dry leaves, twigs and dry grass. Make sure they're all dry before picking them up. Hand me the knife, please? Thank you. Now look at this."

He scratched the bark of the tree with the knife, collected the residue and showed it to her. "These shavings are excellent to initiate fire. Lightly scratch the bulbous portions on tree bark with any sharp object you can find and collect a handful. Understand?"

"Yes," she answered, then stood and ventured away into the vegetation with a sense of purpose. Instructions had been issued and her job was to follow them. Simple.

While Starling was busy collecting tinder and kindling, Dr. Lecter carved out a square portion from the thick, dry bark of a bishop tree nearby. He inspected it with rapt attention to make sure it was hard enough to serve as a hearth board. Satisfied, he then started searching for a bow and a spindle. For the bow he chose a willow limb and bent it slightly to check its flexibility. It should do. Very convenient. Finding the spindle, on the other hand, was taking time as it was the heart of the mechanism he was aiming to create and he needed to be very specific. Thirty minutes into the search, he came across a sub-branch protruding out from the branch of a _Sal_ tree. It was about three quarter of an inch in diameter with more or less uniform cross-section throughout its nine inches of length. He cut it carefully right at the joint to avoid unnecessary abrasions and walked back to the base.

He tore off a ribbon piece from the hem of his shirt, bent the limb and tied its ends with the cloth to create a makeshift bow with a string. The next five minutes were spent smoothing one end of the spindle, leaving only the other end uneven to touch.

By this time Starling had returned with whatever he'd asked for and she placed all of it beside the tree. She waited for his approval and when he gave a nod, sat down against the tree trunk and began to dig a pit. The Doctor had strategically chosen this location for the fire, reasoning that the smoke generated by it would slide up against the massive tree and diffuse into the canopy, leaving no sign for Mason's henchmen to follow on.

With the pocket knife Dr. Lecter pierced an open-ended hole close to an edge of the hearth board after taking a rough impression of the spindle section. A V-notch connecting the hole with the corresponding face was cut as the next step. Then he made a narrow base of dry leaves near the pit Starling was working on, spread some bark shavings over it and placed the board on top in such a fashion that the hole was directly above the tinder nest.

He placed the rough end of the spindle inside the hole and twisted the bow string two inches above this end. He then placed the cap of Starling's bottle on top of the smooth end and put his palm over it, creating a virtual strut with fixed ends. He bore in mind not to exceed the load on the strut above the crushing limit that he had meticulously calculated for its dimensions to prevent failure. One foot over the spare area of the hearth board to hold it in position and, with his free hand, he began to move the bow to and fro rapidly. The reciprocating motion of the bow transmitted as rotary motion to the spindle, generating heat due to friction induced by the soft and hard woods sliding against each other.

Done with her digging part, Starling systematically arranged the kindling – twigs and small branches she had collected – in the pit.

"I could use some help here, Clarice. It'll be a lot easier and quicker with you involved."

Starling knelt across from the Doctor with the mechanism between them. She grabbed the other end of the bow that he offered and together they started moving it back and forth.

Fifteen minutes later, her face was drenched in sweat and his in blood. She made him stop and changed his bandage. Her offer that he rest for some time and she continue on alone was, expectedly but politely, rejected.

Thirty minutes passed. With aching arms she changed his bandage once again. Dr. Lecter sprinkled some bark shavings into the cavity to increase friction.

Another ten minutes later, Starling smelled burning wood dust and huffed in relief. Their motions sped up as the board began to smolder. They continued to drill for a while longer. More smoke and they stopped. Dr. Lecter removed the spindle and tapped the board gently to transfer the blazing ember to the tinder nest via the V-notch. He blew on the coal in order to spread it and soon the tinder ignited.

"Yes! We did it!" Starling shouted enthusiastically, raising her arms in the standard victory-pose.

Dr. Lecter, pragmatic before anything else, swiftly transferred the burning tinder to the pit and fed it some twigs to get the fire going.

Once it stabilized, he stood up to find a very active Starling, with her hand held head-high, beckoning him to follow her lead.

"I don't think so, Clarice."

"Oh c'mon, Doctor. We've both earned it. Besides, where's your sense of accomplishment? Morale is crucial, remember? Up top!"

Her excitement was equal parts fetching and infectious. He raised his hand and gave her a quick high five.

"Whoohoo! Go Team Starling!"

Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow.

"Or ... Team Lecter. Whichever you prefer," she added timidly.

"I suggest we delay naming our _team_ to a more opportune time as a more pressing matter requires our attention this very instant," he said in a calm voice.

Starling had an urge to facepalm. He was bleeding like a gutted pig and what was she doing? – being childish. _Great going, Starling_. "I'm sorry, Dr. Lecter. It was very thoughtless of me."

"No need to apologize, Clarice," he said, handing her the knife. "As for you being thoughtless, you can always make it up to me by doing a clean job."

They both sat down near the fire.

"Are you familiar with the procedure?" Dr. Lecter asked.

Starling visibly swallowed before answering, "Yes. It was part of my FBI training. But just so you know, I haven't really performed it on anyone except gelatin dummies."

Clearly, she was nervous. In response, he smiled, not too broadly, just a taut smile to allay her fears. "Clarice. You'll do well."

Five words and her jitters inhumed. _Christ! How does he do that?_

Without wasting any time, she removed his bandage, washed his wound with water and studied it carefully. The gash was about an inch and a half long. She gave him a cloth piece to wipe away blood every twenty seconds and holding the knife handle, she put its blade in the fire.

Moments before it became red-hot, she pulled it out and allowed it to cool back some while scrambling for a stick from her collection. She handed him the stick to bite on but he simply put it aside.

"Ready?" Her voice was shaky.

"Yes." His voice was steady, his eyes were shut.

Starling took a deep breath and pressed the hot steel onto his wound, lightly at first to study his reaction with one eye and hard later. Dr. Lecter retreated to his memory palace and leaned his face against the cool marble flank of Venus.

The knife cooled and half the gash sealed, she reheated the blade and pressed it again to close the remaining wound. Done, she removed the blade to keep from burning into his healthy tissues.

Starling studied her work and once satisfied, allowed her eyes to roam over his face. It was trembling and covered in sweat.

Should she help him? What if he hurt her again in this agitated, disturbed state like in the morning? Only one way to find out.

Starling scooted closer and brushed her hand over his forehead, his unscathed temple and the skin of his cheeks.

Dr. Lecter, cool and calm in his memory palace, distinctly sensed her even more calming strokes.

Going one step further, Starling moved her mouth closer to his temple and blew on his wound to relieve his stress.

The draft jolted the Doctor from his memory palace into consciousness, and without the serenity of Venus against his face, he felt the deep sting of the burn and his mind reeled.

He rested his forehead against her shoulder and her fingers gently smoothed the wispy hairs at the nape of his neck. Quick, shallow inhalations brought to him hints of cotton, cinnamon and the scent of peace. Like Lady Murasaki's but unlike hers. This was rigorously Clarice and the effect was enthralling.

Dr. Lecter was in pain, he was mesmerized. Starling was mesmerized, she was confused.

His racing heart against her breast. Starling took a leaf out of her earlier musings and her tongue thrummed to relay to him: _Don't worry. Should your heart stop at this moment, mine would nourish us both just fine._

Dr. Lecter, at his most vulnerable, without him intending to or even knowing it, had breached Starling's resistance.


	14. Chapter 14

In an isolated, sound-proof room crowded with shelves housing thousands of books and papers hung a huge whiteboard on a pitch black wall. The contrast in colors helped in focusing on the content covering the board in blue ink of an erasable marker. Twenty or so lines written end-to-end, comprising symbols of particle physics, general relativity and thermodynamics. Psi to denote Hamiltonian operator and the usual alphabets for heat (Q), entropy (S) and temperature (T). Complex array of numbers, also called Christoffel symbols, in the top-right quadrant might be sufficient to give inflated lesser minds a stroke. Symbols of string theory also made collective appearances here and there.

Dr. Lecter sat in a chair observing his equations, unmodified since the first tranche of inspiration hit him at the German's house while watching a documentary film on Stephen Hawking called _A Brief History of Time_. He had been motivated then, his thinking flared and fledgling so much so that the sky seemed the limit. He had yearned for a way to corrupt the second law of thermodynamics. No longer should an increase in entropy be the basis to put a forward arrow on time. Time should reverse and Mischa's milk teeth should be back out of the stool pit.

Now, with a heavy dose of reality instead of bland idealism, as he studied his work variable by variable and line by line, he realized the equations began brilliantly but their quality degraded towards the end. Too many assumptions and over-confidence of controlling the plays at work prevented breakthrough. The place occupied by Clarice could be emptied for Mischa but he required a clean slate, meaning that the knots in her mind that doomed her for eternity had to be sorted out. But most importantly, a way needed to be devised for him to cage her only and only in Mischa's image. Parts of her, for some reason unknown to him, reminded his subconscious of Lady Murasaki. That had to be cured.

Outside the realms of his memory palace in the real world, Starling sat with her arms coiled around her legs and chin resting on a knee. Notwithstanding the calm posture she presented on the surface, her insides were anything but.

 _Should your heart stop at this moment, mine would nourish us both just fine? Oh how poetic. How very corny. Shakespearean? Hell no! Better than that. That's right! Move over Shakespeare 'cause the one and only Clarice Starling is in the house._

She crushed her eyes closed and opening her mouth wide, flexed the muscles of her jaw. She wanted to laugh at the hilarious comparison her mind had made, but no sound came out.

A defeated sigh escaped her lips.

Her efforts spanning the last ten minutes to duck the questions swirling in her head with humor failed miserably. Denial no longer could sustain her resistance, forcing her to resign at least to the idea that she had a crush on the Doctor. It was writing on the wall and she had to concede. In reality, it was an easy way out; however, success or failure depended on whether her thoughts gave her an out.

She rotated her head to the side and saw Dr. Lecter sitting against the tree, one leg bent at the knee and a forearm resting on it, eyes closed. Picture of taciturnity. Expectedly so. Nobody could have guessed from appearance the excruciating pain he had to endure less than an hour ago.

Her eyes jogged over his face, followed by his chest and limbs. She recalled the muscular contours of his arms and shoulders that her hands had unabashedly discovered earlier. He was an attractive man. Though a brash observation for someone like her who had always struggled with such subjects, it wasn't her prime concern. Crush was physical, crush was manageable, crush was safe. What bothered her more was the intimate contact she had felt that went well beyond the shallowness of sexual adolescence. The intimacy of him surrendering to her touch, seeking comfort from her and she providing it, her hands in his hair, the connection that had provoked those words from somewhere deep within her, was what scared her to her core. It, whatever it was, was heavenly, something other-worldly, being linked to another person by an invisible thread, lighter than raw silk, yet heavy in implication. Suddenly crush seemed like a cheap description for the feeling, and that alarmed every portion, every part, major and minor, of her being.

 _Agh. Cut it out, brain!_

Starling bolted to her feet and voluntarily twitched to shake the thought-bugs off her.

Dr. Lecter sensed the sudden spike in activity in his immediate environment and decided to defer working on his _project_ to another suitable time. It wasn't like he was getting anywhere anyway.

"Clarice."

His deep voice startled her. She turned to him as he opened his eyes slowly. "Dr. Lecter. I thought you were asleep."

Her nerves were a bit over-spirited, he could tell. "It appears you thought wrong. Going somewhere?"

"Yes, actually. I'm hungry. Gonna look for something to eat."

"Allow me to accompany you," he said, hobbling his legs to get up.

"You should rest," she interrupted his rise, the authority in her voice unambiguous. "You need to regain your energy, Doctor."

He smiled. "So caring, Clarice. Your mother-hen instincts are acting out. I'm touched."

Starling decided to ignore his comment and turned her head away in another direction. She wanted to seem distant. She needed some time alone and hoped he would pick up on that. Attentive that he was by nature, he did. Her struggle was all but visible to him.

"Very well. May I suggest you go that way," he said, gesturing toward the route he had taken to collect the apparatus for his fire mechanism. "Walk in a straight line for twenty minutes and you'll find a couple of trees bearing greenish-white berries. They are called Zunna berries and are edible. The trees aren't tall. You can easily reach up to the lower branches and pluck them."

Starling nodded, still not facing him and walked away as he added a warning behind her, "Beware, Clarice. It is very easy to get lost in these jungles. Do your utmost to remember the path you're taking."

"Will do, Doctor," she shouted back and soon disappeared into the greenery.

What should he do? Follow her quietly? _Mmm-mmm, negative._ The idea disgusted him. She wanted to be left alone for a while and it was the least he could do to accord her that courtesy _._ So what now? Return to his equations to try and rectify the mistakes? Or just lean back and let sleep take over?

His eyes fell on the silvery highlight on the water bottle and an idea sprouted in his mind. He lazily raised his arms above his head as far as they would go, interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles, yawning, "Some tea would be nice."

He got up in his own time and allowed his nose to guide him.

A bit of sniffing followed up with persistence brought him to a colony of lemon balms. He made his way to the center of the natural garden and inhaled deeply. The strong tangy aroma already made him feel refreshed. Careful not to harm the stems, he plucked four leaves from a healthy plant and placed them in his shirt pocket. Further criss-crossing made him arrive at a small area occupied by scores of white clovers. He touched the leaves, relishing their mild texture against his thumb and plucked a few, careful again.

On his way back, he noticed the pebbles on his trail and collected some.

Upon return, he washed the pebbles with water to remove the dirt and soil and tossed them into the fire.

Some twenty minutes later, he took a stick from the kindling beside the fire and dissected it in half along the length with the knife. Using the two pieces as chopsticks, he pulled out the pebbles from the fire and one by one dropped them into the bottle half-filled with water. The neck of the bottle was sufficiently broad to not offer any obstruction to their entry.

As per his expectation, the water began to boil in no time, bubbles forming and bursting in bulk. He crushed the leaves he had collected into a serried bundle, pushed it through the bottle neck and placed the cap on top to allow the syrup to cook in its own steam.

Starling, both her hands holding leafy cones full of berries, parted the bushes with her elbows and stomped through. She spat a seed out to the side and dipping into a cone, sucked two berries inside her mouth.

She came to the Doctor's side and handed him a cone. "These are delicious," she commented as she sat down beside the fire.

Dr. Lecter popped a berry in his mouth. "If you're finding them delicious now, Clarice, can you extrapolate the height of their taste in April when they get big and white and mealy, hmm? Zunna berries are indigenous to the Ghats. They are rarely cultivated elsewhere. Consider yourself lucky to be munching on these delicacies in their natural habitat."

Her head bobbed in approval. "How do you know so much about this stuff?" she asked with her mouth full.

"'This stuff'? Your terminology weeps for improvement, Clarice."

"Okay, fine, Mr. Perfectionist. How do you know so much about these berries in specific and these jungles in general?"

"Excellent question, I must say."

"Ha-ha. Thanks for the patronizing words, Doctor. Now answer the question, would you?"

The time out had done good to her humor, he noted. The frown deteriorating her face before had disappeared and she seemed much more at ease. Inner battles won? Or merely a ceasefire?

"To recount a fine evening at a winery in Tuscany in brief, I had sampled a couple of Zunna berries while enjoying half a glass of red Château Pétrus. On inquiring from the owner I came to know of the source and other details about the berries. As far as the second part of your question goes, I'd have to venture a guess. Tidbits of knowledge from here and there perhaps, stored in subconscious. Most people can't recall such scraps of memory at will. I can."

"May I ask how?" she asked, genuinely interested.

"Another brilliant question." His remark was swift and deliberately condescending to peeve her.

"Oh will you stop it already?!" she snapped, showing irritation on the surface just for the sake of it, but actually enjoying the banter.

"My apologies, Clarice." He raised his palms in mock-surrender. "I use the age-old memory palace technique to store bits and pieces of whatever I deem useful for future regard." The Doctor was selling his ability short out of modesty, lumping everything stored in his mind from novella-length documents to elaborate situations with details as diverse as the colors of the rainbow under the inadequate trope 'bits and pieces'.

"Memory palace technique? The one described in ancient Roman texts? I thought it was a hoax, used only in fictional books and movies nowadays."

"Believe me, Clarice, it is very real."

Her eyes lit up. "Can you teach me?"

"I could, but I won't. Learning this technique takes a fair amount of time and energy, and seeing our circumstances, we have a dearth of both, wouldn't you agree?"

"I guess," she said, feeling a little bit disheartened.

Dr. Lecter shifted his attention to the bottle and removed its cap. Without the barrier, the lemony scent of freshly brewed tea permeated the air and he could point out the precise moment it reached Starling as the crease on her forehead dissolved.

"Care for some tea?" he politely asked, offering her the bottle.

Her eyebrows were halfway up her forehead. "How in the world did you make tea?"

"A few lemon balm and clover leaves did the trick. Go ahead, taste it and do tell, how is it?"

She accepted the bottle and took a small sip, the unusual taste of the beverage making her squint. "It's bitter. But it's got a nice kick to it. I think I like it."

She handed the bottle back to allow him a taste, and the passes and sips continued for minutes, hindered in-between only by hands ascending berries to mouths. The mild sweet taste of the fruit, it appeared, complemented that of the tea.

The overall mood was jovial and it transported Starling back to another time. A slight giggle from her disrupted the routine and attracted his attention. From the childlike sound and the minute tilt of her head, Dr. Lecter gathered that she was reminiscing.

"Pleasant thoughts, I hope?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Since I don't possess any penny at the moment, may I offer a _berry_ for your thoughts?"

She smiled broadly at him and accepted the berry from his hand.

"Maybe it's the tea or something – I don't know – but this whole scene somehow reminds me of this one episode at my dorm room in Quantico. It was a cold Saturday night and my roommate, Ardelia and I finished a ten pack of beer playing 'Never Have I Ever'," she narrated, indulging in a laugh or two. "A whole lot of good it did us! We were puking our guts out the next morning. Used to do a lot of crazy things then, just the two of us."

She imagined what it would be like to engage in such a horridly ludicrous game with Hannibal Lecter and almost laughed out loud. It definitely would be fun to amuse herself at his expense for a change instead of the other way round.

"'Never Have I Ever'? Is it a board game?" he asked.

"Oh my god! You don't know 'Never Have I Ever'? Who gave you a doctorate?!" she exclaimed in disbelief.

"I'm quite certain knowing this game isn't a precondition for earning a medical degree in most parts of the world," he defended. "On a serious note, Clarice, would it be too terrible to ask you to put your _piercing_ taunts aside long enough to enlighten me about this game?"

"Okay, okay. It is a simple drinking game involving two persons or more. People take turns to say something they've never done and if you have done it, you take a sip of your drink and tell the story. Easy-peasy."

He did not take time to consider. "Sounds juvenile and a proficient way to waste precious time. What have the generations of Adam and Eve been reduced to?!" he remarked incredulously.

Starling rolled her eyes, whispering, "Heh. Thought so."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh nothing, it's just ... I knew you'd say something like that."

"How so?"

"Oh, you know 'cause you're all serious and um... uptight, I sort of predicted your reaction."

"Uptight?" he repeated, scrutinizing her expressions closely. _Devious._ "Clarice Starling, are you, in some wicked way, trying to entice me to play this game with you? If so, you need to work harder because it is not working."

Starling snuffled and then coughed, "Chicken."

Her efforts were pitiful yet amusing on some level. "You forget that I'm a psychiatrist, Clarice. Your attempt at appealing to my masculinity won't accomplish anything, I assure you. However, if you're so eager to play, I recommend you ask me simply."

"Okay, Dr. Lecter. Would you like to play 'Never Have I Ever' with me?" she asked in a sing-song voice.

"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" Looking squarely into her eyes, he continued, "But I'm afraid I'll have to say 'No'. Now if you'll excuse me–" He stood up and was about to turn when her hand stopped him.

Starling had pushed herself into a kneeling position and was grasping his thumb. When his eyes lowered to hers, she pleaded, "Please?"

The analytical part of his brain kicked into high gear. There was a symbolical significance to her imploration. The game in itself or its thrill and entertainment value by extension had no bearing in her mind per se. Much like a projector, her higher brain was projecting a happy memory onto him, trying to give her context. Her subconscious had realized something and was trying to convey it to her by dropping subtle hints. But what was the message?

 _She is drawn to me. But I already knew that. What has changed? ... Ah, the magnitude. Her attraction has magnified and is now seeping through. Is it because she has been alone with me all this time or is there some other factor at work here? Ummmm… can't say._

He sat back down and said, "Very well. I'll play this senseless game. For you."

Her cheeks turned a rosy shade at his last two words and she quickly retracted her hand. Dr. Lecter found her shyness endearing.

When her nerves got reasonably under control, she spoke up, "Okay then, we'll use the tea as the drink. Now Doctor, we need to take a solemn vow not to be deceitful in our conduct during the game. Truthfulness–"

"Allow me to stop you right there, Clarice in order to save ourselves some time. There's absolutely no need for a hundred-word pledge. I give you my word that I will be truthful and you won't lie because you know I can tell."

 _Smartass._

"Thank you for that odious yet pseudo-deserved commendation."

"Wha– ? Did I say that aloud?"

"No, but your eyes are quite telling."

 _Jesus Christ! What did I get myself into?_

She noted that he had a reply ready – witty and degrading, no doubt – and upraised her hand. "Let's just start with the game, okay? Since you're a novice, I'll ask the first question. Let's see. Never have I ever... been arrested. Sorry but I just couldn't resist," she said, guffawing loudly. "You know the rules, Doctor. Take a sip. And spare me the story. I already know the details."

Dr. Lecter brought the bottle to his mouth and took a sip. "Revenge doesn't become you, Clarice. But thank you for showing that little bit of generosity in the end. You have saved my pride," he said dryly, though his tone suggested he hadn't taken offense. "I believe it is my turn now?"

Ever since their first meeting down in the dungeons, one of her traits that he had found most intriguing was her rage. Mainly because it was the only flaw she had not cared to hide from him, even after receiving a drubbing in that first encounter. She wore it with pride, much like churchgoers in the countryside wear 'I love Jesus' wristbands. So it was only natural for him to take this opportunity to needle her about it, under the broad umbrella of the game, of course.

"Never have I ever physically injured my colleagues."

Starling was quick to rebut, "But your victims–"

"None of them was my colleague."

Starling extended her arm, took the bottle from his hand and drank from it. "About four years ago, one Agent Cohen from Vice asked me out and I said no. A month later, he asked me out again and I refused again. One night he came to my cubicle after everyone had departed, grabbed my hand and said something that really got to me, so I punched him square in the face and broke his nose. I'm not proud of it but god did it feel good after."

"What did he say?"

"Do me like you did Hannibal Lecter, bitch!"

For the first time since she met him, she heard him chuckle. It was throaty, much like his baritone voice and rumbled deeply in his chest, its effect similar to the roar of a lion.

"Being in the public eye has its drawbacks, doesn't it, Clarice? The whole tabloid industry survives on rumors. Never mind. Did the obnoxious pup report you?"

The corners of her lips moved up. "Report to his seniors that he got beaten up by a woman half his size? No, of course not. He applied for a transfer the very next day and was gone in a week. Apparently not everybody is as comfortable with their masculinity as you, Doctor."

"Touché, my dear. Your turn."

She thought for a minute. "Here goes, never have I ever cheated in a test."

"That's very good, Clarice. Neither have I."

"Oh shucks." She came closer and whispered, "Well, Doctor, don't leak that news to _The Tattler_ or we'll be termed a pair of goody two shoes."

"Considering the popularity of the monikers already in use for us – Death Angel and Hannibal the Cannibal, that hardly seems plausible, my dear."

Some other place, some other time and she might have found that term used to refer to her derogatory but this situation was out of space and ahead of time, and she cackled at his comment. "Touché, Doctor. Your turn."

"Hmm. Tests. School. Let's see how sincere you were in your schooldays. Here's my statement: Never have I ever missed a class for a trivial reason."

As soon as she heard his words her eyes dropped to her lap. Guilt. Whatever it was it weighed heavily on her. Dr. Lecter wasn't surprised. To the contrary, he was exulted at the bird's eye aim of his hypothesis. This was patterned behavior.

Starling took a sip from the bottle and began, "One morning in my freshman year at UVA, I woke up to find an acne on the tip of my nose. I was so worried about my appearance, about... what others would think that I missed classes that day, and the day after that, and the day after that. I... I didn't attend a single class that week, hardly even left my room. Now that I look back I realize how immature it was of me to let my grades suffer because of such a trivial reason. I'd do it right if I could go back in time."

"Is that why you don't indulge much in coddling your appearance, Clarice?" He had noticed it during their interactions, in her pictures in the newspapers as well as in television footages. She was always well-scrubbed and tidy and spotless but never crossed the line into needless pampering.

She nodded.

That meant she had erred and learnt. Committed to action. Brilliant. It reinforced his confidence in his belief that he could make her see logic and cast her out of the resinous hold of her past, set her free from the confines of her little low-ceiling life, make her fly.

All that for later. Right now she needed her spirits buoyed. "You don't need to. You are beautiful as such."

"Looks are an accident, Doctor."

"If comeliness were earned you'd still be beautiful."

His words warmed her. She tucked stray strands of hair behind her ear. "Thank you."

They looked at each other for what seemed like a long time but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds.

"Do you wish to continue?" he asked.

"Huh? Oh. Yes, it's my turn I guess." She was unstill and unsure. "I'm going to give you a free pass on this one, Doctor. Never have I ever been in love."

She waited for him to deny and proceed but he did not. He just sat there silently and after a while moved his eyes to the sky.

The sun heaved its last breath of the day, whipping red streaks of light across the sky, but he wasn't looking.

Dr. Lecter, in his memory palace now, treaded the corridor not taken for years and arrived at an antique door, as elegant in style as the woman whose memories it guarded within its precincts. A gentle push and it yielded. Images. Of Lady Murasaki ... in her serene white dress beside him in an ornate box, restless, feeling his eyes on her ... the gloss of her hair in the chateau and evening light touching her face as she opened the casement ... submerged in warm water in the bathhouse, candles lit all around ... on the terrace beneath the naked moon, plucking the strings of a long koto. Music began at once and carried even after he came out.

"Doctor?" Starling prodded.

"Murasaki Shikibu or Lady Murasaki, as she was called, was the wife of my uncle, Robert Lecter, whom I mentioned yesterday. She was much younger than him. The later part of my boyhood and initial adulthood years were spent with her, in awe of her – her beauty was incomparable and her grace knew no bounds."

At his words, Starling felt in her chest an unusual itch and attributed it to the knife that she believed for a moment might be in her breast pocket until she recalled its whereabouts with him.

Dr. Lecter, without mentioning Mischa, told her how Lady Murasaki's influence helped him cope with the darkness that had engulfed him after the tragedy of the war, how she brought him into the light, how, in her surreptitious presence, he took the first steps on the bridge of dreams.

When he finished, she asked, "What happened to her?"

"She went back to her native place in Japan and I came to America."

"Did you love her? Do you love her?" She was hesitant.

"I did once. I told her as much but we were never meant to be."

A thought prickled at her but she brushed it aside as inconsequential. Lady Murasaki was his past.

"You never think of her?"

A flash of eyes conveyed his disapproval. "What would it achieve? It is water under the bridge."

She wasn't hesitant now. "Sometimes, I like to close my eyes and put my hand on my heart ... to remember the hugs my daddy gave me, to remember my mother's kisses as she tucked me in bed. These memories keep me going when times are tough."

She crossed the space between them and pressing her hand to his heart, said, "This woman is a pillar of your strength. Keep her close. Here."

He covered her hand with his. She smiled at him.

He looked into the dancing flames and looked into her face. The music had stopped. Thoughts of Mischa and memories of Lady Murasaki couldn't have been further from his mind.

Years had passed since his heart had been exiled to a long winter. In the warmth of her hand, he could feel the ice melting.


	15. Chapter 15

Days had passed since their closest confessions were gurgled out and laid bare for the other person to see, but the novelty and frankness of their talks didn't seem to veer off-track as yet. It was as though a valve in a dam had been turned fully on and words instead of water seemed to flow down the penstock into the tail race, slowly filling their shared reservoir of understanding.

Neither of them had ever taken themselves as the conversant-types. Idle chit-chats and incessant ramblings were never their cup of tea. Both were good listeners, though; Dr. Lecter because he had the capability to mentally phase out the monologue coming from the other end well before it took a turn for tiresome tediousness and Starling because the only person who ever truly commanded her attention in everyday life was Ardelia, and despite all her whines or rampant gushing about her latest boy-toy, she had always been her best friend. But to his pleasant surprise, Dr. Lecter had found that Starling's offhand narrations of topics that didn't concern them whatsoever were as interesting as her sharing of her past. And Starling always held onto everything that came out of the Doctor's mouth, gulping each word down as though it was the nectar of immortality.

In this carnival of words, however, some rides were out of either's reach. Topics concerning Mischa that Starling so wanted to talk about were kept in a separate basket along with Dr. Lecter's curiosity about her relationship with her father. These subjects were across a danger line, bright and flashy like a barricade tape at a crime scene, and there was silent acceptance in both parties that were it at any time breached, the ramifications that followed would be brutish. So they smoothly tiptoed around it and talked about anything and everything else from weather to black holes – both in space and philosophy – and from Paul Krendler to Will Graham, waiting for that perfect moment in the future when they could dig into these meaty topics more naturally and without any danger of a retributive pushback.

Contrary to such luridly forlorn themes fizzing out like an opened soda can in some unknown quarter in the back of her brain, Starling's cerebrum, which was responsible for her conscious thoughts, seemed to be bursting with something sparkly at all times. The jungle which she had hated with the passion of a thousand burning suns just a few days previously, now appeared a lively and happy place to be in. Her yearning for a machete to ruthlessly plunder the stubborn bushes and clutching frond tentacles in her path like a one-woman-Persian-army was replaced by a wish to submit herself completely to this ultimate party of nature. Following her companion's sane advice from earlier, she had made friends with the trees. The green of the vegetation, as a result, had begun to appear brighter than ever and when she looked up, the blue of the sky and pallid golden of freefalling sunlight seemed to bless every hollow of her face. She couldn't help but predicate this sudden transformation to _his_ presence _._ She was smiling more than ever, realizing, in hindsight, how unused to this exercise the muscles of her jaw had become in the last couple of years. Blushes at Dr. Lecter's provocations were becoming regular and more carroty than her hair. Butterflies seemed to have made her stomach their permanent residence and they dived and soared whenever he so much as signaled with his unrestrained – and she could tell by her womanly instincts when it lacked restrains – gaze. She was losing control and for the first time in her adult life, she was willing to give it up. She no longer had any qualms in shrugging off the persona of Special Agent Starling, inclusive of all the wearisome responsibilities which came with the title, and shrouding herself with the carelessness and lightness of a plain, ordinary woman – a feeling similar to the one that would come upon her while fancying the jaunty dresses implanted on the thick, glossy pages of those ultrahigh-end couture magazines she had been sifting through lately – save her unplanned sojourn here – in the private sanctuary of her bedroom.

Dr. Lecter, likewise, hadn't remained unaffected either. Progress on the equations-front was slow, almost lethargic, but the absence of any major breakthrough was pardoned on the pretext that he was getting to know Clarice better. This, he would often tell himself, was an important step in wiping the figurative slate clean for the chalk of his thesis to whirl and twirl on it later on in order to bring Mischa back from the afterworld. But despite his convictions he couldn't do away with the gaping vacuum of inspiration on that count, especially when Clarice's unencumbered voice in conjunction with her delightfully refreshing antics kept him occupied enough not to retreat within his memory palace for longer periods. That the Doctor was unwilling to enjoy the bountiful excesses of the landscapes existing in his extraordinary mind to bestow on her his unwavering focus round the clock was quite telling, and that Starling was able to hold his concentration – to an overwhelming extent – without any breaks for such prolonged stretches was even more telling.

Evening. The sun dunked down the westerly horizon and darkness ran rampant in the absence of any trace of the moon. Dr. Lecter judged the ravine-like trough with supple undergrowth they had arrived at to be comfortably ample for staying the night and began to build a fire. He dug a small pit near a tree and arranged the twigs and small branches he had started collecting on his way for this purpose exactly an hour ago in it, like a players' huddle in a hockey field. From one pocket of his trousers he took out a sheaf of wild green grass which enveloped the fabric of his shirt pocket – burnt and charred into charcoal in the very first fire he had initiated to seal his wound, and from the other he removed some tinder residue: dry grass and bark shavings. Holding the edge of the charcoal millimeters above the tinder nest, he blew on it, causing its jagged ends to glow red. A tiny splinter separated, hit the grass beneath, and flames ensued. He re-placed the charcoal in the green grass and pocketed the bundle while Starling transferred the burning tinder to the fuel waiting in the pit.

They sat down on opposite ends as light from the fire burgeoned like a rapidly sprouting mushroom between them, even garnering influence behind their backs, but just. Starling looked into the fire, then looked around, seeing purple spots in the blackness that extended as far as her sight traveled. This was, without a doubt, the darkest night she would ever live to see. The kind of night that was so dear to the zombies and attic ghosts and witches of the horror novels she had read as a teenager. She shuddered, not in fear but nostalgia.

"Are you cold, Clarice?" Dr. Lecter asked.

"No, it's just ..."

Suddenly an idea struck her like a bolt from the blue. This was the kind of night to scare the bejesus out of sissies, by pouring dogshit horror down their earholes. She had tried it with her girlfriends in school and with Ardelia with varying degrees of success, and although it might seem like some sort of mean and uncaring horseplay on the surface, it had almost always managed to craft an air of superiority about her. Rest assured, she knew better than anyone that the person in front of her was anything but a sissy, but she was darned if she wouldn't at least try. It would be fun. Oh yeah, baby! The worst she could expect in retaliation was him laughing in her face, but that was a risk she was willing to take. His laughter wasn't that bad. No, it sure wasn't. She'd dare even say it was soothing ... like running water of a brook. She liked it. In fact, she had been liking a lot of things about him lately.

"Clarice?"

She shook her head to break her train of thought. _Focus!_ Focus was the key. She shut her eyes and hung her head down limply before slanting it upwards slowly, her mind providing the appropriate background music of a creaky cellar door being pushed open against its will. She snapped her eyes open, then cringed them closed halfway to bring about the dramatic visual effect associated with squint-lines. A sharp blue flashlight was all that was left to complete the elaborate picture, but, of course, she'd have to make-do without it.

"It's dark, isn't it?" A deep breath. "And heavy. You can almost feel the resistance in your nostrils as you inhale it in. Can you feel it ... Doctor?" she whispered.

Dr. Lecter took in a squealing breath and replied, "Yes."

"Really? ... I mean, yes," she recovered, lowering the abrupt shrillness that had seeped into her voice at his answer. Once in character, she continued, "You can feel it and I can feel it, too. It's ... inhibiting, and ... dank, and ... dark. God! So dark. You know who flourish in this dense darkness, don't you? The UNDEAD. They float aimlessly, held hostage between this world and the one beyond comprehension."

She saw a shadow cross his face, not a hint of his otherwise innate nimbleness visible anywhere on it, and it suddenly made her feel queasy, as though she were witnessing a Japanese chef yanking the guts out of a fish to make sushi. In that moment, all her silly roguishness and thoughts of harmless mischief went right out of the window. She felt a trifle frightened.

When Dr. Lecter spoke, his voice had a deadly solemnity about it. "You are quite perceptive, Clarice. Their restless and endless wanderings are as palpable as this tree here, isn't it? The night is effectively amplifying their presence."

Starling swallowed and stuttered, "Who–Whose presence, D–Doctor?"

"Why, the spirits, of course. Of people who died here. The wanderers, the nomads, the foolish braves who thought it would be a new high to test their survival skills in the wild. And it most certainly would have been had they emerged unscathed but... Each and every last one of them ... gritted down the gizzards ... digested in the underbelly of the jungle. Needless to say their deaths were unnatural, and we both know what happens when people die prematurely with their wishes left unfulfilled, don't we?" He looked deep into her eyes. "They ... float ... unfettered in search of something, anything remotely human to latch themselves onto it and feed off its soul as a source of ... nour-ish-ment."

Boy oh boy, things had gotten out of hand so very quickly she hadn't had the time to blink twice. She could feel the gooseflesh on her arms rise and press against the sleeves of her shirt. Her nipples had gone hard due to the runny waves of fright rippling up and down her body every five seconds. Her throat felt papery and dry as a desert. It was time to come clean and salvage whatever shred of sanity she had left.

"Dr. L–Lecter," she tittered abnormally, "I was just k–kidding."

She thought it would come then – that scintillating laughter of his aimed at her juvenility. He would laugh and laugh and laugh, and she wouldn't mind at all. She would simply emit a sigh after and in the spirit of gamesmanship, say: _You got me this time, Doctor,_ and then join in in his victory celebration.

But alas, nothing of the sort happened. It was Dr. Lecter who sighed heavily and said, "Well, I wasn't." Then he lay down facing her, using his left arm as a pillow to support his head and, shutting his eyes, shriveled into unconsciousness, or so it appeared.

Starling drew her knees to her chest and apparently, in an effort to give an outlet to her pent-up jitters, began to oscillate back and forth about her buttocks, resembling a nervous student in an examination hall seconds before the commencement bell. Her efforts to convince herself that the Doctor was making it all up, that he was joking in some perverse way, that he was having her up, proved unavailing. Her neck felt strained and her kidneys ached as soring aftereffects of the ten-hour walking she had done since morning. But she wasn't going to lie down. Huh-uh, that was out of the question. Because if she did, she feared she'd wake up with the puckered reflection of a ghost in her horror-struck eyes or the putrid breath of a werewolf in her scrunching nose or–

A twig snapped to her left.

Her breath caught in her throat. She swung her head to the side but saw only darkness and on it, hideously gyrating faces of ghosts and sinister apparitions and everything evil, like a glittering display of bursting firecrackers in the night sky. She was aware she was imagining it, all right, but it didn't make a dime's worth of difference. She felt utterly incapable of squeezing out any sound from her throat, which had closed up in a pinhole, and that was just as well, because if, on a sudden outburst of valor, she did manage to choke out the obvious question 'Who's there?' then she knew – knew by some baser instinct drilled in the most primordial part of her brain – the reply would be 'Your death' and that would be the end of her.

A branch snapped behind her.

She jerked herself up into a standing position. No muscle in her body was left that wasn't convulsing or trembling at the moment. Her stomach felt like she'd had stones for supper. She glanced sideways over her shoulder at Dr. Lecter. He was still sleeping, blissfully unaware of the portension of the situation – all fearless and peaceful and – _well, you asked for it_ – burly and statuesque and so, so handsome ...

 _Ugh. Not now, stupid crushing brain!_

A wind rattled the tree brooding over them and her legs began to move involuntarily, scampering around the fire toward him – the only beacon of clarity in this bleak, scary atmosphere. She lay down beside him, imitating his posture like a mirror image – only she was facing away. She wriggled back a little until her fanny touched his and the relief she felt was indescribable in words. More than that, courage began to clinker within reach and she had an urge to scream into the face of whoever or whatever was taking a shot at terrorizing her: _Make your move and my man will sucker-punch you back to hell!_ Had she been coherent of her thoughts, her cheeks would have bled pink at the term she had used to refer to Dr. Lecter.

Finally calm and composed and dog-tired, she drifted into sleep.

In the dim light of the small fire Dr. Lecter's face was visible. His eyes were closed but on his lips was a crooked smile, stretching from ear to ear.

* * *

Dream-Starling came out of the elevator onto the short corridor and into the octagonal room. She had been here once before. But that was a long time ago and her motivations had been different then, or that was what she had been telling herself ever since. This time, however, there wasn't any Catherine Martin to save from Buffalo Bill, no inclination whatsoever to impress Jack Crawford for a seat amongst the biggies, no lambs to save. No excuses to hide her want. She was here solely because of _him._

Officer Pembry was sitting at his desk at the entrance and Officer Boyle in a chair closer to the cell. They were insignificant, akin to background noise and she glided across the room, not sparing them even sidelong glances. They tried to protest her advance but this was her goddamned dream and she managed to fizzle them out of it.

She paused before the cell door as an urge to look at her reflection eye-to-eye came to the forefront. She turned toward a white wall and willed for it to be replaced with a shiny mirror extending from floor to ceiling, and it did. Her auburn hair, parted in the middle, was tied low behind her head into a loose ponytail, her lips were a shimmering dark shade of red and her body was wrapped in an off-the-shoulder maxi gown that went all the way to the pads of her feet, its color matching that of her lips. Excitement bubbling in her stomach, she felt like a lady on her first date. Not a blind date, naturally, because she knew exactly whom she was expecting to see. She had dreamed about _him_ many a times in the last seven years, although she didn't remember most of them once she woke up – perfectly normal for a healthy mind. Handful of times when she did happen to remember, she preferred to look the other way. The most effective lies are the ones one tells oneself. But this was dreamland and that meant her fantasies were only as accurate as Communist Party's mouthpieces' claims of democracy in China. So everything that passed was benign and she remembered it all as long as she was here. Furthermore, she did recall soberly never dreaming of Memphis before. Perhaps it was too personal a memory to be tweaked and tinted by her subconscious. So what had changed this time? _His_ reappearance in her life, obviously. New memories were being forged every minute of every day and this one wasn't the lone special one anymore.

She walked across the floor of the cell, the wavy shirttail hem of her gown scurrying at her heels in her wake like an obedient dog, and floated around the flimsy paper screen to the space she suspected must have originally been reserved for a toilet seat but was now occupied by a coffin. All sleek mahogany inlaid with ivory decorations, it was large – two-person-large, at least – and perfectly tapered at the shoulders. The outlines of a huge H-shaped crest on the lid glazed white with the healthy servings of the light reflected by the walls.

She walked up to it, touched the locks gently and at once they snapped open and the lid lifted. The insides of the shelter – that is, the floor and six faces – were lined with soft white cushions. At the head of the box was a satin pillow and on it lay the head of Dr. Lecter. The skin was flawlessly pale on his face, neck and the entwined hands resting on his stomach. The rest of him was covered in the crude black of his trousers and suit jacket. Even his shirt and tie were black, albeit a tad lighter in shade. His cheeks were ruddy and his lips were blood red.

Dream-Starling reached out with her right hand and lightly stroked his cheek. At her touch his eyes opened, baring a pair of maroon pinwheels, her reflection eddying down their depths in never-ending reels. His face split in a suave smile and out of the corner of his lips, two glimmeringly pointed fangs poked out.

Her breath hitched at the beautiful image he presented. He was a vampire, she noted with some amusement. She smiled back at him, and on a whimsical intuition, touched the corners of her own lips. A pair of fangs met her touch and her smile broadened even more. What did that make her? A vampiress? She liked that idea, liked it too much, actually. She could be his vampiress.

When her musings gave way, Dream-Starling repeated the three words she had told him seven years ago, "I just came." This time, however, their connotation wasn't lost on her.

Dr. Lecter turned over on his right side and tapped the space in front of him. "Climb in."

It was an invitation ... an invitation from her vampire, and she wasn't going to turn him down. She hopped into the coffin and lay down beside him, facing away for no particular reason other than the utter embarrassment she feared would engulf her the moment she looked into his eyes in such close proximity. Her cheeks reddened as his strong arms looped around her lean frame. His bigger hands found her smaller ones and he slowly laced them together, one finger at a time, as if the weaving of each digit signified a vitreous bond solidifying between them. Hands bound firmly, intimately, he pulled her towards him tightly, embracing her, accepting her ... all of her into the broad span of his chest ... and heart. Her shoulders and upper back were exposed to him. He brought his mouth closer to the area where her neck met her shoulder and planted a small kiss there. A tantalizing shudder wormed up her spine at the contact and her eyelids shuttered down with pleasure. Heat from his body steamed into her pores and she pressed her buttocks into his groin, getting all snugly-wugly and comfy-womfy in this mini-abode of his embracing arms. She had absolutely no doubt in her mind that she could spend her whole life like this ... with her vampire ... in his warm embrace.

Real-Starling moaned in her sleep and began to grind her ass against the solid resistance at her back, grinding, grinding for a minute, until she felt something poking at her butt. She muttered a few protesting mewls and reached her hand behind to study the obstacle. She jabbed at it with an upraised finger and deduced it to be something coercively hard yet succumbing, like a newly purchased toothpaste tube. She followed it downward and arrived at a cushiony sack-like sphere. Incoherent and unable to conclude from touch alone, she squeezed it, and Dr. Lecter broke the lock of his arms around her torso and jerked awake, emitting a high-pitched cry of pain.

Starling woke up, too, and pushed herself into a cross-legged sitting position. Dr. Lecter was sitting beside her, both his legs spread out into an acute V, one hand contorted into a fist and thrust into his mouth and the other... She followed his other hand right down to where it groped his groin before moving upward toward his face, twinkles of realization beaming through her mind. He was wheezing shallow belches, sans gas, out of his mouth and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

Finally her lips rounded into an 'O' as the bulb of understanding lit inside her head.

He must have turned towards her during the night and she, under the influence of her erotic dream, must have thrust herself into his embrace, she theorized. That toothpaste-tube-like thing was actually ... his _thing_ and that sack she had squeezed ... those were his balls!

She cupped her hands over her mouth and broke into laughter at the bizarreness of the whole situation. Dr. Lecter's whimpers and his childish posture didn't help matters much. They only made tangible the oddity of the fact that she, Clarice Starling, had accidentally squeezed Hannibal Lecter's balls and that, too, in the middle of a jungle located diametrically opposite the country she had spent thirty three years of her life in! The comedy of it all was beyond assimilation and she tottered to her feet, still howling like a lunatic. Her stomach began to ache after a while and she had to clutch it with her forearms to gain some semblance of relief. She looked down at the Doctor, who was cupping his scrotum and bellowing forceful exhalations through flared nostrils in the hopes of gaining composure. Just when she thought she had herself in control, her brain recalled the incident when she had kneed Paul Krendler in the balls and a term scrawled past her watery eyes: _Nut-cracker,_ and her laughing fit began anew.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" she managed to choke out in-between snorts and snickers. "I don't think I've ever laughed this hard in my entire life."

Dr. Lecter, who had very much succeeded in his struggles by now, replied, "Glad to be of service."

The cold sarcasm in his voice managed to bring her down from her high. She wiped her tears away with the heels of her hands. "All right, all right. I can take a hint, Doctor. Not going to laugh anymore, I promise."

"And? ... "

"And what?"

"I believe an apology is in order, Clarice."

She put her hands on her hips. "Apologize for what exactly?" In the brightness of the morning daylight, the ice frosting her fears from last night melted away and their cause became as transparent as a window glass. "It's all your fault, you know. If you hadn't acted all spooky and not tried to scare me, I'd have stayed on my side of the fire, minding my own business and not bothering you for a second. But you had to do it, for your own fu-u-un that is, didn't you?"

"Allow me to freshen up your memory, Clarice. It was you who took the first step down that path. I merely followed your lead."

"But later I came clean, didn't I? I told you I was kidding. You on the other hand– God, Doctor! You scared the shit outta me."

"So this was your idea of revenge? Wiggling your ass against my groin to get the blood pumping and then roughing up my testicles as some sort of a cruel showdown?"

She didn't know what surprised her more – him using the word 'ass' or admitting that her jiggling it had made him hard. The thought that she had succeeded in arousing him, without any sort of conscious intent on her part, was heady as well as satisfactory. It meant she was trotting down a two-way street. In her mind she jumped high into the air with her hands clasped at her cheek like a little girl. She smiled.

"Was it?" he asked again.

"No. No, I was just having a dream. An erotic dream, you see–" She stopped mid-sentence and slapped her palms over her mouth. Had she spoken too much? God! She hoped she hadn't spoken too much.

She saw him looking up at her meditatively and knew he was joining the dots. She averted her eyes, lest they gave her away. But the hypnotic pull of his eyes was too overpowering to resist and she found herself under their spell as he got up and walked toward her.

"Say, Clarice, was I, by any chance, in this erotic dream of yours?" he asked, now standing in front of her.

Starling shook her head both in reply to his question and to get the turbidity flushed out of her system. Before he could counter, she made a sweeping gesture with her hand toward the sky and said in a robotic voice, "Oh, look how much time we've wasted! The sun is nearly overhead." That was true. In the comfort of their shared cocoon they had slept late in to the morning. She walked past him, dumped some dirt on the already doused fire with her boot, collected the bottle from beside it, came back and clutching his hand, led him forward into the jungle. Dr. Lecter did not protest, but the smile on his face wasn't quite unlike the previous night.

That afternoon, Starling, walking diagonally across from the Doctor, felt the itchy prickles of the smile he had worn since they began their routine for the day on the back of her neck. She dejectedly wondered why it always had to be her, why she time and again served herself to him on a platter, why couldn't the world conspire against him and in her favor for a change. Out of nowhere, an idea tinged in her head and to a rankled Starling it seemed no less than a divine intervention, so she decided to suit the action to the idea.

She stopped, took out the bottle from her pants' pocket and offered it to him. He refused.

"More for me," she remarked merrily, and undid the top two buttons of her shirt, giving him a good look at her cleavage. She fanned her face with her hand obliquely, muttering, "God! It's hot as hell." Then she raised the bottle and opening her mouth just a tiny bit – like she had seen the models in those soft drink commercials on TV do – gulped the water down, rivulets escaping from the corners of her lips and straying down her neck. The smile on Dr. Lecter's face was history as he watched with his jaw dropped agape the glistening sheen of the water stream pecking at the upper partition of her breasts. Starling, at last amused, was studying his reaction the entire time.

Thirst quenched and the duel in her mind won, she lowered the bottle and asked him again, a note of smugness intentionally making its way into her tone, "Are you sure you don't want a sip? You look parched."

Dr. Lecter, to his surprise, noted that the insides of his mouth had indeed gone as dry as lintballs in the last minute. He accepted the bottle from her hand and downed the remaining water in record time.

It was Starling who wore a smug smile on her face thereafter, thanking her stars for making this day an exception to the rule preternaturally rigged in his favor ninety nine per cent of the time. Life was goooood.


	16. Chapter 16

Starling craved meat. It wasn't a nonstop yammering, the sort a drunk gets every evening pecking away at the remnants of his shoddy control, but a small, droning one, the kind orthodox Catholics are used to on Fridays or devout Hindus on Tuesdays. Not overpowering, nothing she couldn't put a leash on, but there all the same, persistently reminding her that the last chunk of meat she had swallowed was a bland turkey sandwich while aboard the magnificent USS John C. Stennis roaring eastwards across the Arabian Sea.

She was in that mental state when Dr. Lecter, walking alongside her, posed to her an interesting question: "How would you like to have meat for lunch, Clarice?"

Spending all that time with him she had, she wasn't surprised he had developed an ear for her mental chirring by now. For sure he was mocking her, so in a sarcastic tone she replied, "I'd love some. Should I set the table and organize the silverware and cloth napkins?"

"No formalities necessary, my dear. I believe it is time to get in touch with the more rudimentary side of our eating rituals," he said much to her confusion. He grabbed her elbow and gingerly tugged, halting their movements after two more steps.

She turned and looked at his face, then followed his eyes to a bush diagonally across to their right. It was swaying minutely but noticeably, even though there wasn't any wind, and her ears picked up a low indistinguishable sound emanating from that direction – a sort of flat clinkering noise, like leaves being trampled.

"What? What is it?" she heard herself ask.

Dr. Lecter shushed her. "Stay here," he whispered and took toward the bush, his footsteps slow and delicate as a cat. Once there, he squatted and stilled, his eyes fixated on the roots of the interwoven shrubs.

Starling didn't dare move. For a moment she felt an inexplicable fear for her partner's safety creep up her spine, but she hastily brushed it aside. For goodness' sake, this was the same man who had strolled through a mob of wild boars without so much as a scratch to show for it!

Silence. All the familiar cacophonies, big and small, prowls and chitters, a meter or a mile away, died down. It was as though the jungle were waiting for the Doctor to make his move. The bush hogging their interest was inanimate now, dead as the others surrounding it.

Starling saw Dr. Lecter's eyes narrow, but his head was steady as a rock. He wasn't blinking. An unnatural rustle of her shirt collar _tinged_ irritatingly in her ear as she craned her neck a little, causing her to curse it inwardly. Something told her this was Dr. Lecter in one of his predatory avatars, and she wasn't going to miss it for the world. She tried to focus her attention on his line of vision, but failed to discover anything out of the ordinary.

Slowly, steadily, Dr. Lecter turned his face to her and in a casual voice said, "The pocket knife, you have it?"

She nodded.

"Take it out."

She did.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

He turned his head about, catapulted his right arm into the bush elbow-deep, and came out with the head of a purplish-black snake crushed between his thumb and two fingers. Behind him, Starling gasped loudly. The approximately four-foot long creature was struggling in his grip, writhing for its life, winding its slimy body round and round about his forearm.

"Clarice, would you like to do the honors or should I?" he asked, making no move to untangle his arm.

"I'll do it," she replied, feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline _snake_ through her veins.

Dr. Lecter got up and walked to a tree. Not loosening his hold on the snake's muzzle, he grabbed it with his other hand an inch below its eyes composed of diamond-shaped vertical irises – their color and texture mystically similar to the tree bark in the background – and propped the narrow scaly stretch in-between against the tree trunk.

Starling came swiftly and with unwavering to and fro motions of her knife-hand, rendered the creature lifeless. With a powerful snap, Dr. Lecter pulled his hands apart to break the tendons in its neck and threw its head away. Even though decapitated, the rest of its body continued to wind and unwind about his lower arm.

He finally uncoiled the snake and pushed its bloody anterior-end into Starling's face.

"Wha–?" Blood drained from her face. "Am I supposed to eat it raw? With scales and skin and everything, I mean? I don't think I can do it."

"Of course you can't. I only want you to kiss it."

She looked at the blood dripping from the severed stump held right in front of her eyes and felt bile rise in her throat. "Why?"

"In some cultures the saying is you need to kiss your prey, else its spirit will come back and haunt your dreams. And knowing firsthand how easily you scare, Clarice, I wouldn't want a repeat of yesterday morning." He placed a discernible hand on his frontal nether regions. "After all, a man's testicles can only endure so much, don't you think?"

"You want to know what I think? You're an incorrigible smartass, that is what I think!" she said and pushed his hand holding the snake away before playfully slapping him high on his right arm.

Dr. Lecter mimed a painful screech and made a show of rubbing the _injured_ area vigorously. "You have very strong arms for a woman of your size, Clarice. I advise you be careful with them. People can get hurt, you know."

"Was that a compliment, Doctor?"

"It most certainly was."

She did smile at their effortless banter but it was enigmatic and didn't quite reach her eyes. _Great! That is exactly what a woman wants to hear. Compliments about the strength of her arms. What's next? My hairy knife-wielding hands? My rough-and-tough calves? Guesses, anyone? I'm taking bets._

Next, Dr. Lecter handed over the snake's corpse and walked past her.

"Where are you going? What on earth am I supposed to do with this?" she yelled after him, lifting and displaying the snake above her head to emphasize her query.

"I'd like to search around for some herbs for our food," he explained without turning. "In the meantime, I want you to stay here and skin the snake."

"First tea leaves, now herbs. Tropical forest, kitchen garden, it's all the same to him," she muttered to herself. "But hey, what am I sulking about? The tastier the food, the better for Clarice."

With that, she squatted down and spread the snake, whose inane struggles had ceased by now, on the grass. "Bad time to be roaming around in the bushes, eh, Mr. Snake? Your loss, our gain," she mumbled conversantly into the air as if the snake's spirit were floating around, keeping her company. She turned the snake so that its belly was facing up and using the pocket knife, made an incision right down the centerline, from its decapitated head all the way to the tail. "If it's any consolation, it wasn't your fault, you know. A mob would have passed by without noticing anything. But Dr. Lecter ... well, all I can say is he's different. He's attentive and immensely skilful. More ... masculine somehow than other men, more ... bestial." She then grabbed its anterior-end and pulled the skin from the flesh. Thanks to the incision, the torn skin wasn't as taut as before and came off without much effort. She kept peeling, using the knife wherever the flesh refused to give, until she reached the tail. This was the tricky part. There wasn't much flesh here, plus the skin was disseminating into a rubbery pulp. She decided to leave it at that and cut the tail off and threw it away along with the skin. "If we were in the Stone Age, cavewomen would be tripping over themselves to get a piece of that man." She tittered at her joke then stopped abruptly; she didn't like the mental picture it evoked. She took out the water bottle from her pants pocket and thoroughly cleared the blood, dirt and filth off, uncovering sleek salmon-colored flesh.

Dr. Lecter arrived a short while later with his hands full of kindling and a variety of herbs. He studied her work and, to Starling's utmost satisfaction, was quite vocal in his approval. He took over the food preparation thereon while she volunteered to build fire.

He dissected the snake in half along its length and made several small incisions in both the halves, inserting his fingers deep into the flesh to create pockets. He then selected two sufficiently long sticks from the kindling and coiled the chunks of meat along them separately in such a way that the pockets faced out and were easily accessible. Finished with the preparatory work, he glanced over at Starling and was surprised to see that she already had the fire going and was currently busy planting a pair of willow limbs with V-shaped stumps at opposite ends of the fire.

When she was done, he placed the makeshift skewers over the stumps to test their holding strength and height. Everything was perfect. Clarice was one brainy companion to have.

The cooking set-up ready, it was time to add the herbs. He removed both the skewers and inserted some bay leaves in the pockets he'd created. Cooking wasn't something that appealed to Starling but watching Dr. Lecter's dexterous efforts to make this meal as well as he could in spite of all the glaring constraints, she couldn't say she wasn't intrigued. In fact, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say everything about him intrigued her. As he added the herbs one at a time, she insisted he share the special flavors they added to the food along with any associated trivia; she wanted to hear him talk on a subject that, evidently, pleased him. As the conspicuous observation that the place-setting and her inquisitiveness to know her partner's interests amounted to them being on a restaurant date came to the fore, she blushed.

The last herb he added were a couple of _pippali_ leaves. He gave her one to smell and went on to say, "It's tangy like lemon, isn't it? These leaves add a certain zest to the food. They have an added advantage in that their taste holds and doesn't turn bitter at higher temperatures as is the case with lemon juice. Perfect for barbecue-cooking." He rotated the skewers a quarter circle to distribute the heat equitably. "You see, these leaves have many benefits. They cure indigestion and are an excellent aphrodisiac."

Starling's cheeks turned an attractive pink shade at this final piece of information. _For God's sake, stop it! You're acting like a teenager._ She hoped he wouldn't notice. She was, predictably, wrong.

Dr. Lecter continued rotating the skewers every few minutes. The aroma reaching Starling was, to put it in one word, heavenly. She eyed her share of meat over the fire and felt a pang of disappointment at its paltry quantity. Man, I can eat a dozen whoppers back-to-back right now, she thought, with a bucket of coke – regular, not the diet crap with its crappy aftertaste – and a platter of crispy fries. 36-24-36, my ass!

A muffled snortle escaped her nostrils. Her grossly attentive partner might have noticed it were it not for the precisely timed _quack_ of a woodpecker in the distance.

36-24-36. Hmm. In all honesty, she wasn't that big around the hips. But her breasts were sturdy – _between pumpkins and pears_ (she smiled wickedly at that) – maybe just an inch or two short of the _magic number._ She had started getting them a little prematurely, developing painful bulges around her boy-nipples as early as at age eleven. Additionally, her waist was well within the acceptable tolerance limits – she knew that for a fact and was quite proud of it; her early morning ritual of pounding the pavement all these years hadn't been for naught. All in all, her figure would definitely pass as the envy of most thirty-three-year-olds.

Maybe Dr. Lecter could compliment that instead of her arms next time? It was a silly thought. She wondered if he had even noticed. No, _that_ was silly. If the events of yesterday afternoon were any indication, either he had or she had been ignorant to her blindness all this time. She had stored that moment in her own (prototype) version of the memory palace. She may not be able to tell which tree was at which position that instant, or in which direction the wind was blowing, or which birds were chirping on treetops, but she could close her eyes and vividly replay the expressions on his face as his eyes devoured what she had so willingly flaunted. Maybe that was a compliment in itself? Self-possessed and taciturn that he was by nature, it wasn't entirely inconceivable. Maybe that was a sign. Maybe he was just as attracted to her as she was to him.

Maybe?

Maybe.

So many maybes! So much confusion! Either he was or he wasn't. Was it so hard to let her know in any case? But you yourself haven't told him yet, she reminded herself.

That was it! Dr. Lecter believed in reciprocity. Tactless quid pro quo with zero pretense. If she could muster up the courage to make the first revelation, he would reply in kind. Of that she was certain. And then she could finally make sense of all the weird vibes that had been passing between them.

The meat on the skewers had turned a yellowish-brown color with smoky black patches spread throughout. Dr. Lecter poked at it with his index finger and concluded it was cooked to perfection. He got the skewers off the fire and removed the charred herbs from the pockets.

Starling accepted her share and took a generous bite. The inconvenience of the many vertebrae and ribs aside, it was delicious. The meat was crisp on the outside and juicy inside; the herbs had done their part of enhancing the taste pretty well. The moans rumbling through her throat conveyed her appreciation in an apt fashion and there was no further need for words.

Her zeal for confirmation of her suspicions was so high that she decided to proceed with her plan before she could take a second bite, overriding the protests of her tongue, which in that moment, wanted to do nothing else but discreetly absorb every molecule of the delectable treat in her hand. She slowly raised her eyes and cleared her throat to attract his attention.

"Dr. Lecter, I have to, um, confess something," she began warily. "When we started on this adventure together, I didn't think we would survive as long as we have. It's been one hell of a ride. I think you'll agree that there was a lot of distrust between us in the beginning. And expectedly so. I mean, heh, what with you being a fugitive and me an FBI agent. But all that has cleared now. I hope you realize how much I have come to depend on you. So ... thank you. For everything."

Dr. Lecter stared at her, frozen, as if he were a deer caught in the headlights of a car. The many presumable signals he had garnered notwithstanding, her overt forwardness amounted to something huge. Experiencing and expressing gratitude wasn't something that came easily to her. It took him a few seconds to apply his mind and nod in understanding. "Not at all. You have been an exceedingly cooperative partner, Clarice. Give yourself some credit," he said appreciatively and smiled, before returning to enjoying his food.

Her confidence buoyed at his reaction and she decided to play her hand further. It was now or never.

"I have another confession to make," she announced after taking a deep breath. "Somewhere along the way, in the last couple of days, I started to have these ... thoughts, you know, a sudden rush of feelings, something I couldn't quite grasp initially but ..." Her eyes found his and she took the plunge. "I think in some way I'm, um, attracted to you, Doctor."

Dr. Lecter gave her a disinterested look and said, "Of course, you are." Then he returned to his previous biting and chewing.

Whatever Starling may or may not have expected, she definitely didn't foresee this particular response of his.

"You know?!" she exclaimed incredulously.

He nodded. "I really don't see why this is such an epiphany for you, considering your distinct educational background. For a psychology graduate, you don't reflect much on yourself, do you, Clarice?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your mannerism and behavior in our first meeting down in the dungeons. You may have realized what you just told me only 'in the last couple of days', but at the risk of being accused of being a little too self-gratifying for my own good, let me state this: I knew it then and I know it now."

Starling recalled the nuances of the meeting he was referring to. His reserved and classy demeanor and her difficulty in unifying the man behind the bars with the stereotypical image of a cannibal in her mind, her thoughts blanking out the first time she took in his eyes, the implicit courteousness in his voice as he spoke to her, the cliffy pauses between the times he ended his sentences and she began hers, the unexpected tingling in her skin. Was he correct in his deduction? Yes? No? Maybe.

That maybe again! Time to get rid of it. She had cleared all ambiguities on her end. Now it was his turn.

"Well, Doctor, do _you_ have anything to confess?" she said in a small voice.

His forehead creased as he seemingly forced himself to focus hard on her question. "No, I don't think so."

Starling felt something crack in her chest. Thorns pricking in the hollow beneath her ribs, she could feel the burning sensation there. She was aware he was looking at her and made herself nod once. It wouldn't help to unduly attract his scrutiny. Right now, she only wanted to retreat into the oblivion of her heart and lick some wounds.

And throw an inward tantrum...

So she wasn't his type. What exactly was his type, anyway? Bimbos like that Rachel DuBerry or Rosencranz or whatever the fuck surname she went by these days?! Those snobbish dolls meandering from their mansions to exotic restaurants and then back again with a different suitor each time? Those assembled _beauties_ with their surgically altered noses and high cheekbones and artificial boobs and asses, who were wealthy enough to not have to work for a single day their whole lives? She could never be one of them. She was the kind of woman to do the dishes immediately after eating her meal, had been since childhood. Not good enough to be an attractive choice for him, apparently.

She looked down at her breasts as if to confirm something. They were good. The leers she had to annoyingly bear all her life, ironically, came in handy this time. Yup, her tits were exceptional. Perhaps he was an ass man. She was a little underwhelming on that count, she'd have to concede.

Suddenly, an image of the Doctor sunbathing alongside a gorgeously tanned tootsie on a beach in Rio emerged in her mind. Followed by another of him accompanying a brunette to an exhibition in Florence. And another of a blond with his arm around her tiny waist next to the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Unsurprisingly, all these women conjured by her imagination had huge asses.

Thoughts and pictures kept flashing through her mind's eye. Her emotions were a wild mess, wreaking havoc in her heart. She was hurting badly and at the same time wanting more, like a gravely injured boxer after a fiercely contested bout who just won't quit. All this put together pushed her past her ability to think straight. She wanted to know more and she wouldn't quit until she did. Come what may!

"Dr. Lecter, I need to ask you something. While you were on the run in South America and later in Europe, did you"–her resolve faltered as she looked into his eyes–"um, did you have ... did you keep female company?"

"I'm afraid it's a little vague for me to answer. Could you be a bit clearer with your words, Clarice?"

"Actually, I want to know whether you had ... relationships," she clarified, and in order to leave nothing to chanceful misunderstanding, an awkward moment later added, "with women."

Dr. Lecter knew exactly what she was trying to ask. But he decided to play coy. "Sure. I had excellent professional relationships with several female academics and scholars while–"

Starling decided to stop beating around the bush. This bogus rummaging for politically correct words had never been her style anyway. "For God's sake, Doctor, did you court and fuck any women during your time on the run?"

He stared at her the way a lion might a deer that had knowingly wandered into its cave. He had absolutely no intention of letting his prey go easily; he was parched for fun.

"You know, Clarice, the quality I most admire in you is your lack of pretense, your inability to mince words. Your question is gravely rude – and I think you realize that yourself – but I'll answer it despite that. Because the curiosity behind it appears to be entirely benign and, on a certain level, amusing." He paused for half a minute, weighing things in his mind, then added, "The answer is several."

Her heart felt like someone had staked a red-hot poker into it. If she were hurting before, this was a thousand times worse. But she was a fighter and she needed to save face somehow, deflect attention from the hurt and the consequent embarrassment she knew was visible on her face ... and in the process perhaps hurt him in return? In the spirit of their quid pro quo, it was only fair. Clarice Starling knew how to give back as good as she got.

In a matter of seconds, she schooled her features as well as she could and said, "Good for you, _Doctor_." His title came out in a harshly disrespectful way and it felt good, like a soothing balm on her wounds. "As long as we are revealing secrets, I've had _several_ lovers myself." Her eyes searched his face for signs that she was getting back at him, but didn't find any. His apathy riled her up further and she decided to take the blowback up a notch. "Law enforcement personnel, doctor, engineer, you name it and there's a chance I have fucked one. A new lover every week." She laughed but it seemed forced and broken. "In fact, I'm so notorious that multiple times my roommate, Ardelia, had to sit me down and give me a lecture not to oversex myself to a coma." In real life, it was a worrying Starling who had to intervene in Ardelia's sex life but this story, with the necessary role-swapping modification, suited her purpose precisely to the mark; there was no need to create a new one. Besides, she doubted she would have been able to, given all the heartache she was battling against.

She noticed a sudden tautness in his shoulders and felt a cold vindictive respite overcome her. Not much, but it was something.

When he finally looked at her, waves of revulsion swarmed his gaze. It wasn't only that she was floundering lies at him but the picture she had painted was so contradictory to her character that he thought it natural to take offence. This woman in front of him, whom he placed well above the usual brainless, mediocre lot, was defiling herself, and no reason was good enough to justify that. He could sense rage bubbling through his veins. It had been a long time since he got that feeling.

"Is that so ... Clarice?" he finally said, his tone freakishly cold and ominous. "You would think that directness of approach would get your point across and it has always worked for me BUT you seem to be quite an exception." He paused to allow her time to think. The creases on her forehead, however, made it clear that further clarification was required. "I believe I made it abundantly clear in the asylum how I loathe being lied to. But it appears I didn't get the message across to you, now did I?"

He was treating her like a child, again, scolding her in that parental voice because he judged she hadn't learnt her lesson. _The bastard!_ Her lips pursed and her fingers curled up into fists as she ground out, "I don't give a damn what you–"

Dr. Lecter raised a finger to cut her off. "Did I say I was finished?"

"Dr. Lecter–"

"Did I say I was finished?"

His voice was so serious and unrelenting that her reply came out as an immediate instinctual reflex. "No."

"Good. Now, I don't know why you'd feel the need to lie to me – and I won't delve into your motives for that – but since you did, allow me to tell you what I think," he began. "Considering the tall standards by which you judge yourself, it is only fair to assume that you've exactly the same, if not higher, standards for a potential mate. And, Clarice, having caught a glimpse of your struggles in everyday life, let me tell you that those standards are infinitely ... rigorous. So the appreciative glances on your person are deemed leers by that fatherly voice in your head, heartfelt tête-à-tête soon becomes intrusive, simple handholding is judged inappropriate. Now tell me, if you won't even allow a man to touch your hand, how can he be allowed a place in your bed?" A gnomish smile on his lips as he completed, "In light of all this, I can draw only one conclusion: You're as innocent as the first time you bled. You are still a virgin." To further humiliate her, he made it a question. "Aren't you?"

Starling was stunned. All the things he'd said were so true that for a moment or two, she suspected it was her inner voice she was hearing, not his. She felt trapped in the web of her own deceit. Once again, Hannibal Lecter had one-upped her. With that conclusion came the anger of not being able to wrest control from him. They weren't equals. He could destroy her, give her immense heartache with a few words and if she mustered enough courage to counterattack, he'd turn it 180 degrees on her in a matter of seconds. In effect, she'd always be a twenty-five-year-old standing in front of his cage. The past seven years of her life during which she'd been to hell and back meant absolutely nothing.

The rage she had clamped down on before was back with a vengeance. Her jaw tightened and pulse quickened. Her exhalations were so hot that it felt like she were breathing out hot fire. His smug smile infuriated her further and she had a primal urge to claw it off his face – no, to rip the whole goddamn head off! Fearing further humiliation, she reined it in and thrust it out of her mind. Her rage, however, demanded to be fed one way or the other. So she threw her skewer at him and stood up so fast that she was surprised when she didn't get a headrush.

"You son of a bitch!" she roared. "I reveal my deepest secrets to you and in return you ... you humiliate me like a two-cent whore! You are the world's biggest asshole, Hannibal Lecter, do you know that?! You've always treated me like this ... like _shit_ , first in Baltimore, then in Memphis and now here, in a jungle where I'm contributing to your fucking survival! Fuck me for being attracted to you! It's all your trickery. I see it now. You've somehow manipulated me into feeling like this. The biggest bastard on earth that you are, I wouldn't put it past you! Fuck everything I said earlier! I take my _thanks_ back. I can survive without you. I don't need you accompanying me and giving me all this unnecessary grief. Hereon, you go your way and I'll go mine. I hope never to see your arrogant face again. Ta-fucking-ta!"

She collected her water bottle and stomped past him into the vegetation. Alone.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: A year and a half back, I calculated the age of Dr. Lecter using some of the hints in the books and ignoring the artistic freedom Mr. Harris had made use of (Hannibal's age during the great war, for example). The number I arrived at was fifty-four. Since it's been some time, I don't remember the exact details of how I arrived at that number but I've always taken him to be that age in all my stories, including this one. So that's that, for one. Secondly, t** **his story begins on December 23, 1996, and, by this chapter, we've reached sometime in the January of 1997.**

* * *

Long fluffy ears of a beautiful grey rabbit twitched and rose in attention as Starling, unknowingly, breached its intuitive circle of safety. One more step and it fled away.

 _I hate him! I hate him! I hate him! Fucking Casanova, promiscuous bastard! Who gave him the right to theorize my personal life based on random, unverifiable assumptions?!_

A small voice intruded: "Random? Unverifiable? Nobody tricked you into some kangaroo court, Starling. You're the judge and the jury. You realize he was right, right?"

Starling's fists clenched at the treachery of her own mind and she screamed into the air: "Yeah, but how the hell could he know all those things?! I just wanted to get back at him ... for being the world's biggest philanderer! Is that too much to ask?"

Ignoring her question, the small voice prodded: "And...?"

"For being apathetic toward my feelings."

"And...?"

"For not feeling the way I do!"

"There you go. Let it out. Let it all out. Admitting what's bothering you is the first step in a meaningful and effective healing process."

Needing a breather, she stopped and leaned against a tree.

A moment of insanity and her old pal rationality was right up her ass!

Admitting the problem. Healing. Stupid passive words. And passiveness was equivalent to self-contempt in her dictionary. She punched the tree in frustration.

Why was her conscience acting so apologetic? She had no regrets. He deserved the earful he'd gotten. She earned the right to fling some profanities at him after everything she had to endure in the last thirty minutes.

Unable to fully convince herself of the chasteness of her actions, she looked up and groaned into the thick air. What was it that made her so confused when it came to Hannibal Lecter? Had it been another man, she wouldn't have stopped at verbal abuses. Broken bones, yes, broken bones would have been their reward, and she definitely wouldn't have spared a second more at the commotion than it deserved. But here, unfortunately, feelings were involved and that made it a teensy bit more complicated. She was still hurting badly, there was no denying that.

"Damn you, Dr. Lecter!" she cussed through gritted teeth. "Admitting the problem, my ass! The only way I'll heal is when I shoot you in the ass. That would be my salvation." She pumped some air into her lungs, and rotating on the spot, yelled like a maniac, "Do you hear me, trees? Animals? Birds? Everyone, listen. Shooting Dr. Lecter in the ass would be my salvation!"

Slouching at waist, hands resting on knees, she snickered. God! was she a mess; talking to herself and taking refuge in lame humor. Still, the break from her emotional tornadoes was welcoming, however short it may eventually turn out to be.

She opened the cap of her water bottle and took a few sips. Much better.

In control of herself for the first time since the fight, she became acutely aware of two things: One, the absence of a solid and reliable presence beside her in this wilderness, and two, the familiar shadow of proneness creeping upon her inch by inch, a feeling similar to free-falling without a chute, something that had departed her for whatever time she had spent with Dr. Lecter. Interestingly, that feeling of insecurity had been her constant companion for as long as she could remember, peeping through dark corners as if she were a prey, more psychological than anything no doubt, but there all the same, whether she was a little girl in an orphanage in Montana, or a Special Agent in the FBI in Washington. She had temporarily been rid of it in the company of a convict – a serial killer, no less! From fearing him to feeling safe with him to leaning on him on a daily basis. Strange, huh? Could there be a more over-simplistic word to describe it?

"What was the reason behind such a dramatic turnaround?" Old-Pal-Rationality demanded.

Starling was prepared for it. She closed her eyes and inwardly showed it the middle finger.

 _I don't need you badgering me about him all the time. Just go to hell! And while you're at it, take him with you._

The comeuppance, minor as it may be, flushed the disparaging array of thoughts out of her mind and fired up her brain cells. This was the Starling she recognized, the Starling who was blunt and bold, the Starling who never looked back, never gave a fuck about anyone else. The relief she felt as a result was gratifying. It probably didn't occur to her that such occasional flare outs only meant she was still angry and that her anger was simply manifesting itself in a form she was more used to.

Nevertheless, familiarity bred complacency. This was the closest she had gotten to her former-self in a long time and she'd hold on to it for the time being.

 _All right, Starling. You're on your own now. Heard of the wise adage: Prioritize to survive, right? So, what's the first order of business here?_

As if on cue, her stomach groaned loudly. Food it was, then.

* * *

One leg outstretched, the other bent at knee with a hand resting on it and head tilted at a small angle, Dr. Lecter sat lost in his thoughts. Beside him, skewers laid unattended. The precious meat on them was soiled and just fodder for ants by now. But he didn't care. There was something else he hungered for more – mental stimulation, naturally.

He was replaying Starling's outburst in his mind again and again. Those clenched fists at her sides, those furrowed brows and the searing eyes beneath them simmering with rage, the pallor of such raw emotions renting her face, and that tongue – _my, my, that vile tongue!_ He wasn't the kind of person to tolerate tantrums. He had known people, who, when asked to bend, preferred to crawl; people content with being others' punching bags; people without a backbone. The Doctor most certainly was nothing like them. But sitting here and looking back, he couldn't but conclude that Clarice did deserve her outburst and that he deserved being at the receiving end of it. He did cross a line, after all.

What made him do it? He had known she was trying to provoke a reaction out of him – and he had obliged her! Not the reaction she had wished for, obviously, but he was never one to play into the hands of his opponents. And the rage he had felt at her lies ... the first in so many years – that was all the more unlike him. As a matter of fact, he couldn't recall the last time he'd been so angry as to lose control of his formidable faculties – maybe once or twice in his more younger days, when the blood is highly prone to sudden fits of wrath, but certainly not very recently. So, what had made him do it exactly? That was the million-dollar question. Adept at following several trains of thought simultaneously, he, in line with his fundamental trait of never letting any question go unanswered, dedicated one to this specific query. The others he focused on the problem at hand.

It had been more than an hour and he judged the worst was over. Clarice's anger must have quelled by now, perhaps not completely but to a reasonable extent. He decided it was time to sort things out with her. That was both logical and, indeed, the only way forward.

He stood up, dusted the seat of his pants and sniffed his way onto her trail. He could detect cinnamon – with a sharp note of _pepper_. A smile appeared on his lips. Fiery vixen, was what she was! A little fiery vixen with an acid tongue.

* * *

When Dr. Lecter finally found Starling, she was a sight to witness. Straddling a thick branch of a tree approximately fifteen feet above ground, she was slowly springing forward. To get her hands on a score of beautiful red-skinned fruits hanging close ahead. The whole setup was so ludicrous that he couldn't stop a chuckle from escaping his lips.

His heavy laughter hoofed about Starling in waves of a supersonic jet blast and she swayed on her spot a little, surprised.

Looking down at him, she frowned. "What the hell?! I think I made it _abundantly clear_ that I don't want to see your damned face ever again."

"Yes, I–"

" _You would think that directness of approach would get your point across BUT you seem to be quite an exception,_ " she fired his own words back at him. And with twice the sting.

Dr. Lecter took a deep breath. He knew confrontation was the last thing he could afford at the moment. She seemed exasperated to the hilt. "All right, I deserved that. And I deserved your earlier outburst–"

"Outburst? That was no goddamned outburst. It was the truth, for Christ's sake! You are arrogant with a capital 'A' and you have always treated me like shit!" she lashed out.

"You know that isn't the truth, Clarice. You are one of a select few people whom I place in high regard," the Doctor replied quite truthfully, hoping to pacify her anger.

"Oh well, when you put it like thaaat," she mimed elaborately, feigning shock and placing her hands over her mouth. "Hannibal Lecter says he places me in high regard. What do I know? Maybe that's an honor more worthy than the fucking Presidential Medal of Freedom! At just thirty-three, by God, have I peaked early?!" Her hands fell away from her mouth and her features went back to rigid. "Is that what you wanted to hear? Have I stroked your ego enough for today, Majesty?"

Dr. Lecter closed his eyes and emitted an exaggerated sigh. She sure knew how to push his buttons – the only one in the world with that ability, he'd have to give her that.

Satisfied with his reaction, Starling decided to ignore him and continue with her efforts to get to the fruits.

"Do you know which fruit is that?" Dr. Lecter asked a moment later.

When he didn't receive a reply, he answered it himself, "I think it is _kokum,_ an inedible fruit."

Starling stopped abruptly, just a foot short of her target. _Inedible?_ Could he be right? Granted, fate had been her wrecking ball lately, but surely her luck couldn't be that bad. Or could it? _Yes it could, Starling,_ the voice of experience rang in her ears. _When it comes to Dr. Lecter, believe me, you don't want to take any chances._ Yes, yes, she knew that! But could she possibly turn away from that little window of opportunity that may allow her to rub it in his face merely on that pretext? Huh-uh, it was too tempting. And yet... _Argh!_

She alternately bit her nails and lower lip – just some inconsequential activities – as she pondered things over in her mind. What should she do? Follow the path of revenge, knowing the risks associated with it, or play safe and turn back? Quite a dilemma, one would suppose. It was not, actually. With every passing second, the 'fuck him and go ahead' camp was gaining traction over the 'don't do this' camp, but, to her credit, she was resisting to give in.

A confused minute twitched by and she finally said aloud, "Are you a hundred per cent certain?"

"Well, not exactly a hundred per cent but–"

In an energetic voice, "Aha! I knew it. Not completely sure but you had to poke your nose in, didn't you? That's your nature in a nutshell – intruding, boastful and, and ... pejorative." That last quality was irrelevant to the discussion but she added it anyway, just to rub it in his face while she could.

Dr. Lecter refused to indulge in a retort and that only made her cockier. "You're not a PhD in survival studies, Doctor. I'm sorry to break it to you but you can't always be right. And this time you are definitely wrong. Take it from me, I'm a hundred per cent sure." She wasn't, but, in her defense, neither was he!

She reluctantly turned her attention back to the fruits and began to hop ahead. Dr. Lecter simply shook his head and walked directly underneath her. He had an inkling of what was going to follow.

Slowly, steadily, Starling managed to reach the fruits and plucked one. It looked delicious. She wiped it clean using the tail of her shirt, and without any further delay, sunk her teeth deep into its flesh.

Her smug and contumelious expression contorted as the pungent taste exploded in her mouth, and she recoiled. The gag reflex kicked in as she groaned in disgust and coughed and spit it out.

 _Told ya_ , came the inevitable mocking from the voice of experience, eerily sounding like _him_ at this stage.

Her whole body began to shake with unmitigated rage as she stared at the inedible fruit in her hand. She growled at the top of her lungs and threw it away with such wild force that she lost her delicate balance. She began to capsize to her left, arms flapping and flailing to get ahold of the branch but failing, and, ultimately overturning, she fell off it. She knew her struggle was useless now, so she bundled up into a ball, closed her eyes and waited for the painful impact.

Which never came.

Dr. Lecter caught her just in the nick of time.

"You seem to be making a habit of this, Clarice," he remarked jokingly. "This is the third time in a month, do you realize that? If I didn't know better I'd say you particularly enjoy being held in the bridal fashion."

His voice broke through her haze of morbid apprehension and her eyes opened in slow motion, as though they were bandaged closed for a week. She saw his face, then glanced over at the hard and unyielding ground below, and cried in relief. Sighing, she curled up against his chest like a cat.

That is, until her brain overcame the initial shock. One could have guessed the precise time it began to function as she jerked her head back, looked up at him and scowled, "Oh, crap!" She moved up and down, shaking side to side, trying to wriggle free from his clutches, and managing it at last.

She didn't look at him this time round. Just picked a direction and started walking, not sparing any thoughts on the route she was taking.

Dr. Lecter, on her heels, urged, "Pray stop, Clarice. I think we should talk."

"Maybe you do. I don't. I said everything I had to say to you earlier in the day. And you before that. There's nothing left to talk."

"Come now, Clarice," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You're being childish."

Starling, incensed by his touch, turned to him and roared, "Do NOT touch me. And refrain from using your degrading adjectives on me, I warn you."

Dr. Lecter, ever so full of banter, couldn't help but quip, "So instead of receiving a word or two of gratitude for saving you from a decidedly severe injury, I get a warning. Where are your manners, Clarice?"

"Did I say I wanted to be saved?!" she shouted in his face. "And by the by, if you hadn't come after me, I wouldn't have fallen in the first place."

"If you hadn't left, Clarice, you wouldn't have climbed the tree at all."

Starling pushed to intervene but the Doctor, making use of his abjectly dominant personality, bought a few precious moments for himself. "There's no end to this line of argument, don't you see? It is better if we sort our differences out in an amicable fashion. Wouldn't you agree?"

"No, I won't!" she ground out, defiant. "I told you there's nothing left to discuss. You go your way and I'll go mine."

She was about to walk away again when he held her by her elbows. She flinched and bawled, "I told you not to touch me!"

"Yes, you did," he said, withdrawing his hands and holding them up demonstratively. "See, not touching. I'm not going to touch you. I only want a minute or two of your–" he had to make an extra effort to not be sarcastic "–invaluable time. May I, at the very least, have that?"

Starling didn't make any attempt to move, but neither did she answer him. She simply stood there, looking over her shoulder and not at him, to convey that she could be least bothered about what he had to say.

"Good. Now then, allow me to tender my sincerest apologies to you. I shouldn't have said what I did say, and definitely not the way I said it. I was undoubtedly out of line there. I was rude and discourteous, and I couldn't be more ashamed of my behavior."

"Are you done yet?" Starling inquired, acting as if she were bored. "Can I go now? I will have the advantage of daylight only for so long, you know, and I need to find something to eat before sunset. Not everyone had the luxury of eating two skewers full of snake meat like you, Doctor." She knew she was acting like a bitch but he deserved that. It wasn't on her conscience.

He ignored the spite in her voice and said, "Just a moment. I know my words and insinuations hurt you badly and–"

She was quick to respond, "Don't flatter yourself, Doctor. You didn't hurt me. The only thing you did was open my eyes to your true face. And I cannot thank you enough for that."

"I see. Well, then, I suppose it wouldn't make much of a difference were I tell you that I wasn't being thoroughly truthful during our earlier conversation. A pity, really."

"No, it would not," she replied and spun around. She was about to walk away when her brain made sense out of his tacit words. Hope hankered inside a crevice in her heart. She spun back and noted that he had taken two or three steps back and was himself about to walk away. "Wait!" she called out. "'Not being thoroughly truthful?' What do you mean by that?" She had gone for a flat-ish tone, and yet, it belied her nerves.

"Just what you think it means, my dear," Dr. Lecter answered simply.

Hope was blooming out of that crevice and spreading fast. It was dangerous. She knew it was dangerous, more so for her heart.

"Don't play with me, Doctor!" Starling warned.

There was such sternness behind her words that, for a second, the Doctor was taken aback. He realized, in that moment, how terribly he had actually hurt her.

Time for course correction. Grasping the full significance of the opportunity he'd created for himself, Dr. Lecter dived right in, "I'm not playing with you, Clarice, the universe shall vouch for my truth." A beat while their eyes met and held. "Perhaps, if you were amenable to asking that question of yours one more time, I could give you an authentic reply presently, hmm?"

He smiled, showing his small white teeth. Starling, for her turn, smiled as well. Though it was feeble and hesitant, it was one of the most gorgeous smiles he'd seen.

Starling was brimming with hope now. "Umm, okay. Did you court and fuck any women during your time on the run, Dr. Lecter?"

"The answer to that particular question, my dear Clarice, would be zilch, zero, _shunya._ "

Everything stood still. Starling looked deep into his eyes for confirmation. He'd lied to her before. Why should she believe this time was any different?

And then she found it! That tiny speck of honesty gleaming in those irises. She could have bet her life on his truthfulness right now, if it came down to that.

She blinked once, and the magic happened! The gloom of sepia lifted and everything was colorful once again. The trees were green and the sky was blue. The sun was warm, and she suddenly wasn't so hungry anymore. A weight had been lifted off her heart. She literally felt suffocation giving way to that bright, sparkly 'something' in her chest cavity. And then to top it all, she heard herself giggle for no reason. She was going crazy. And she couldn't care less.

Knock-Knock! _Humph._ Once again, rationality was ready to play the spoilsport. But Clarice, in her giddiness, was more than willing to listen. She had been disdainfully tough on it before. All said and done, logic was still her best friend. And it was logic that made her ask, "Never? Not _once_ in seven years? It must have been difficult. I mean, you're a man. I understand you have needs."

Dr. Lecter could sniff potential of an interesting conversation.

" _Needs_ , you say? What _precisely_ do you mean by that?"

"Oh, you know, emotional needs." She could immediately feel him exuding disappointment her way. "All right, that doesn't apply to you, I get that. But physical needs? Surely, like any other man, you have those?"

"Tut-tut-tut. I didn't expect such blatant ignorance on your part, Clarice." A pause. "The age-old excuse of 'needs'. Yes, I meant to use that term explicitly – excuse. For that is what it is. An excuse to justify promiscuity. The ultimate weakness of the human character, they say." With that, the Doctor began to grin.

"What's funny?"

"The incongruity of it all is. It's comical when you look at it. Don't we use that excuse to justify our own affinity to lust? The lewdness and the sexual profligacy and the licentiousness! Overstep the bounds of your relation, of your kinship, and you have that excuse ready at your disposal. We are all slaves to our _needs_ , they claim. We can't control it. But then, of course, you have your monks and your yogis with their perdurable self-control. Oh, but, they are exceptions, surely. We can't be expected to toil and strive like them every second of every day. For our characters are not so strong. We are weak, we are common, we are, after all, mere animals. Our DNA has evolved, certainly, but poor, wretched we humans are still animals at our roots. God, bless our souls!

"But don't dare use that term in a courtroom. It is reserved for murderers. Beasts, they say, they are. For only animals can kill their own kind. And animals are the worst. They even have a fancy term for an unintentional murder. Manslaughter, they call it. It's hilarious. Isn't it hilarious?"

"Murder? It's not hilarious to me," she answered, keeping a straight face. "The two-facedness of humans is. I get what you're pointing at."

Dr. Lecter took his time to say, "I have no doubt of that."

The way he said it got to Starling. Like he was being patronizing. Like he was dismissing her. Like he was sidestepping her derivations. _Typical of him,_ she thought to herself. _He really is full of himself. No surprises there._ And that was the mental kick she required to crawl out of her dopiness. Her focus turned back to his earlier lie and it didn't take too much time for her to decipher his motives, nor to identify the pattern.

"Why do you do that?" she said dejectedly.

"Pardon me?"

"Play with me like that ... for your own entertainment. Not sparing a second thought on what it might do to me. You did that earlier in the day, didn't you? You were analyzing my reaction to your answer. It's clear to me now."

"That was merely some good-natured fun, Clarice."

"Fun? That fucking fun is exclusively for your enjoyment, and _always_ at my expense! I'm not your plaything, for crying out loud!" she bellowed. "Can't you get it through that thick skull of yours, huh? Stop treating me like I'm inferior to you."

She was getting riled up again, although several notches lower than the all-encompassing rage she'd been experiencing until five minutes ago.

In that moment, the sun changed positions and sunlight, filtering through the canopy, illuminated half of her face. The other half was pale, sick and dark – a victim of her temper. Dr. Lecter observed this contrast with a keen eye and found it ridiculously attractive. He took a snapshot of it in order to be able to sketch it someday, with just one modification suggested by his artistic side – free hair, instead of that plain and wonted ponytail she always wore.

"I don't believe you to be inferior to me, let me clarify at the very outset. Your other inferences, though ... on the face of it, they do appear to have some weight. Nevertheless, you realize you're asking me to go against my nature, don't you? And that is as hard as it can get." His eyes crinkled as he completed, "I'll need all the help in the world I can get. Are you inclined to helping me?"

Narrowing her eyes, she replied warily, "Help you with what?"

A smile erupted across his face. She'd taken the bait. Again! "Make an example of me, Clarice. This very instant. Something harsh and branding to look back on when I get such _worthless_ ideas."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, confused.

Dr. Lecter ignored her question and, in an excited voice, said, "Quick, when I lied to you during our lunch, what did you want to do to me?"

Now she was doubly confused. Everything was happening so fast! "Huh, what? I don't under–"

"Or better yet," he cut her off, "what _will_ you do? Yes, that is a more appropriate question _. What will you do?_ "

Starling watched the last remnants of amusement slipping away from his face, being replaced by a deadpan expression.

"What will you do if I, say, take a step closer to you?" he said and followed suit. "And another? And another?"

Starling watched with trepidation as he closed the distance between them, step by step, right until they were only a footstep apart. It reminded her of that time during their first encounter when she had stood pressed against the bars of his cell after her unfortunate tryst with that madman, Miggs, watching the rare spectacle of the Doctor agitated. Unlike that time, however, there weren't any bars or nylon net to separate them here. Funnily enough, she didn't wish for any either.

"What will you do, Clarice, if I violate your personal space?" he said, emphasizing the S's in the last two words.

Her breath hitched at the audacity of his words.

His arm shot out, went behind her back and pulled her toward him. Her hands, by reflex, landed on his shoulders. There was only an inch's gap between their bodies, but that, too, was surmounted when her nipples grazed against his chest as she breathed laboriously. His right arm remained steadfast around her waist, contentedly drawing lazy circles on her lower back.

The difference in their heights meant her forehead was at the same height as his chin. Starling, to the credit of her stubbornness, vehemently ensured that her eyes remained fixated lower on his chest. Dr. Lecter's eyes, on the other hand, bore down on her face – whatever little was visible to him at this angle – brashly, gulping down her shyness. It was exquisitely sweet.

A minute later, he raised his free hand behind her head, removed the elastic band tying her ponytail, tousled her hair and let the wavy strands fall freely. Then he bundled them up over her right shoulder and frisked them over to the left. Starling didn't object – she was too stupefied to object.

Slowly, very slowly, he brought his mouth to her naked ear, and whispered, "What will you do if I do this?" He blew into her ear and she was reduced to putty. She slipped her arms around his neck to hold onto him as she could no longer trust her legs. There was hardly any doubt about his intentions when he lowered his lips to her neck, and she was all but lost. Although brain-fogged, she rationalized some of the gibberish clogging her brain, which loosely translated into: _No. Oh God, no, please. I stink!_

Contrary to her lack of control, Dr. Lecter was still very much himself. It wasn't that he was unaffected – far from it – but his mind was too disciplined to stop performing at will. He was aware of a spike in the levels of testosterone and endorphins in his body. Additionally, he was registering an emergency signal originating from his cerebrum. He tried ignoring it in favor of the beautiful woman in his arms, but it was adamant and he was forced to concede.

The question he'd put before himself had finally been answered. What made him do it exactly? To be precise, what had made him lash out at Clarice after she'd lied to him earlier? The answer was obvious and yet he found it astonishing. Self-preservation. He'd acted in self-preservation because the picture she'd painted, even though a lie, was too distressing for him to digest. He couldn't imagine her with another man. The very thought of it filled him with uncontrollable rage – the reason why he'd lost his trademark cool at the time.

It was shocking, to say the least. But the revelation it inspired was even more shocking.

How far he had veered from his original goal! How unintelligently he had acted all this time! Clarice Starling was never meant to be an object of his affections. She was supposed to be a stepping stone for the resurrection of Mischa and nothing more. He had no business developing attachments with her. That was a red herring in his plans. Why had he acted so irrationally? What was wrong with him? What in the world was he doing? In fact, what was he doing now?!

He immediately removed his hand from behind her back and broke the lock of her arms around his neck. Starling, hazy and confused from his abrupt recantation, opened her eyes to see him taking a step back. For a second she thought she saw helplessness on his face but she quickly negated it as a trick of an addled mind. His features were never anything but passive.

Dr. Lecter didn't look at her when he said in a coarse voice, "I apologize for my unnecessary transgressions, Clarice." Had he looked, he would have seen the hurt on her face induced by his words as objectively as her eyes and nose.

"Now then!" he exclaimed briskly, clapping his hands together. "You said you were hungry? Let's do something about it, shall we?" He directed an artificial smile at her – an action that did not fool Starling for a second. Something was wrong. He ordered her to stay put and walked away.

Starling stared at his back until he disappeared in the greenery. Then she turned her face up toward the sky. Dark clouds were in the distance, ready to hide the sun. She was looking and not looking at the same time. It is going to rain, she thought to herself. Her unconscious mind, that noticed minute things without telling, nodded in affirmation. _Indeed ... A storm is in the making._


End file.
